Death Under the Sky
by Paradigm of Writing
Summary: The 1st Hunger Games has finished, and now the Capitol eye has directed itself towards the second year. Cranston Ervack, victor of the 1st year now has to resubmit himself to the torture of viewing this sadistic event and will watch on in horror as the tributes will have their death not be handed to them from the ground, but from the sky. Their death is under the sky.
1. Prologue: Year Two

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with the prologue to Death Under the Sky, the sequel to Capitol's Strike. I am ready to do my first ever SYOT, and it'll be quite the wild ride. The information required for PM submission are at the end of this chapter, and I'll have a track of tributes submitted on my profile immediately after this is up. Enjoy the brief prologue, and get away to submitting by what the rules say, please and thank you.**

* * *

 _ **Cranston Ervack: Victor of the 1st Hunger Games (17)**_

* * *

The alarm goes off before he can scream at it, and he's pissed, cussing and throwing things all over the room. "Caelan, what _did_ I say to you about having my alarm clock be turned on this early?"

Current Head Interviewer, promoted after the immediate end of last year's games, pokes his head through the doorway, grinning devilishly. "I don't remember such a thing," he laughs, ducking under a thrown vase at his head. "If I did, I wouldn't have set it."

"Son of a bitch!" Cranston hisses, falling back to his covers.

"Darling, I'm sorry, but you need to get ready. As do I. Don't you remember what today is?"

His boyfriend's words love him stunned, and he's scrambling up on the sheets. "No, no, no, no! Not today!"

Caelan abandons whatever kept him busy in the kitchen of their Capitol apartment, and he's hugging him all over, kissing wherever it hurt. "Stop. Cranston, you need to stop. Jerald will be here any minute to fly you out to District 1. I-"

"I'm not going anywhere with him." Cranston spits out, face twisted in anger.

"I thought you liked them!"

"Jerald and Ammadeus are amazing people, governing the worst creations alive in human history. It's these stupid, _stupid_ games that's got me riled up. How many times a day do I mutter Rye's name again?"

"Around eighty." Caelan counted on his fingers.

"That's seventy-nine times too many." Cranston murmurs, slinking out of bed, practically limping to the shower.

Today was reaping day, Hunger Games year number two ready to get off the ground. The president didn't want to do participate, he wished it could've died in a folder somewhere on his desk years ago, blinded by anger and bitter hatred for those who truly never did anything wrong. In a society such as one directed by Panem, that was never, _ever_ possible. Head Gamemaker Jerald Donner was going to be at Cranston's apartment by the hour, ready to take him to the first district of Panem where a boy and girl between the ages of 12-18 would be selected to fight in the death against 22 other selected 'tributes' as the citizens of the Capitol called them. The first year, Cranston's major win which was not a win in the slightest, took like wildfire to the citizens, and a new call was made: engineer more Hunger Games or watch as the fragile system of Panem collapsed underneath a tide of anger and resentment. Ammadeus Snow, current president and leader of Panem could only comply. Two voices against 50,000 was a much harder battle to fight.

Cranston turns on the shower, stepping into the four by four tile container. A stream of frigid water splashes against his skin, and he shudders. Felt like blood to him, something so familiar it didn't affect him that much. Depended on who that blood came from, was the deterrent. Memories of last year hit him like bullets. Rye's suicide, Eve's insanity, Mako's blood dripping teeth filed into sharp fangs, Velvet's slashed chest from a wolf, his own tears and screams that echoed off into the night. Remembering the hellish times in the arena was not a plus for him, nor would it ever be.

The scent of coconut wafts into his nose, one smell found everywhere in the Capitol. Didn't matter what shower or room you decided to bathe in, you'd find the bottle somewhere. " _Hah,_ " he thinks to himself. " _I liked it better bathing in the mud and blood of my allies. Times when an arrow in the knee was the worst injury I could sustain before being driven mad._ "

There is a knock on the door to the bathroom, although he can't hear it over the running water. Calean's comforting voice can be barely heard over the torrent of water, but Cranston's so far gone in his world that it doesn't matter who is speaking to him, he'll ignore and go around like normal. "I love you Cranston! Call me if you need some assurance." the Head Interviewer calls from the outside of the bathroom, footsteps dissipating, soft dulls and echoes vanishing away.

Cranston washes his arms, lathes his hair, and lets the soap run, run, and run. Standing under the shower head, simpler times couldn't be more prevalent to the only standing victor. One from District 8, which was a surprise to all. Having an upfront group called the Careers, many expected them to win, such a cost in being in the Hunger Games.

Half an hour later, the shower is turned off, Cranston is clean, and all thoughts of any dark foreboding scenarios have disappeared from his mind. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out of the foggy world that was the bathroom into the pallid and posh living room only to be scared out of his wits.

"What the living hell?" he shouts, covering himself up even further as he gets an full eye view of Jerald Donner, Head Gamemaker sitting on his couch, martini in one hand, a manila folder in the other.

Jerald grins humorously. "So this is what you look like in the morning, bare chested." he smirks.

Cranston's face transforms from shock, to happiness, then to anger. "What are you doing in Caelan and I's apartment?"

"Picking you up for the reaping."

"But..."

"You were in that shower for nearly half an hour Mr. Ervack. I had to get you out of there. Had you been any longer, I would've dragged you out myself," Jerald reminds the victor. "We are on a schedule, one that has demands unlike any other. For the past nine months, you've acted as a normal human being. Today, you're a victor."

Cranston pulls up on the towel, scowling for full effect. "As if I was ever a _normal_ human being, Jerald."

"How couth." the Head Gamemaker purses his lips.

The victor walks behind the couch, to the dresser slammed into the backside. He digs into the mess of clothes and other assortments, putting on a simple cotton sweater and leather jacket, by Capitol standards it was below sub par, worse than mediocre. A long mirror replaces where the TV would be, and he stares at himself hollowly, waiting for a specter to reach through and grab him. Sometimes his reflection became the worst monster of them all. " _I was the one who fired those arrows, who killed them. No one told me what to do. It's their deaths on my hands. Their blood dripping off of my fingertips_."

"I'm not concerned with being couth," Cranston replies coolly. "Isn't that your job?"

"Not today," Jerald admits. "You are the one picking each of these boys and girls this year. You are showing your face the entire time, for each district. High profiles need to be maintained. Caelan will reassert that in your brain plenty of times today, keep that in mind."

"I never forget it."

"You ready?"

"No. Never will be."

The Head Gamemaker sighs to himself, standing up and deciding what his job will be for the day. He walks around to Cranston, clamping him on the shoulders. The touch is sensitive, and the victor has the instinct to punch the man in the face. "Cranston, don't be like this. I know that what you have been through was hell, but that is a chapter in your life filed away. We won't resurface it unless you need it to be. You're too good for this. _We're_ all too good for this. Come on."

Cranston nods solemnly, although his heart aches, his brain hurts, and he wishes to cry all over. Jerald exits the apartment, jingling a pair of keys. The victor lowers his head even more, curled up into a ball. Rocking back and forth, he silently assures him this one thing.

"I'm not there. I'm not fighting anyone. No more Jake, no more Opal, no more anyone. It'll be just me in that viewing center. I'll be okay. I AM Okay." he whispers. Standing, he sniffles, each step to the door hesitant and unsure.

If there was one thing that was certain, whether it be Cranston's sanity or his confidence, the 2nd Hunger Games was about to begin. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

* * *

 **There we are everyone, my first chapter of my first ever SYOT. Originally, Death Under the Sky was designed to be a sequel to Capitol's Strike like this indeed is, but I already had my own OC cast created. But, backtracking and realizing that I wanted to see how this could go, I decided to keep those characters on hold and try an SYOT instead. So, here we are. Death Under the Sky. And I'm super,** _ **SUPER**_ **excited.**

 **First thing is first. Tribute submission can only be done by PM's, no reviews of tribute submissions will be accepted as that is breaking one of the guideline rules. This is a submit till due date, so no first come, first serve. Submission is open from November 28** **th** **until December 31st** **. The real 1** **st** **chapter, the District One reaping will be posted a week from there. Here is what must be included-**

 **Name (First and Last)**

 **District**

 **Age**

 **Gender**

 **Appearance (General description required, but detail would be preferable)**

 **Family (Same for the ones prior, minus District)**

 **Personality (Be specific)**

 **Weaknesses (A minimum of three- be specific)**

 **Strengths (A minimum of three- be specific)**

 **Weapon of Choice**

 **Reaping Reaction if Reaped**

 **Would this tribute volunteer?**

 **Token**

 **Private Gamemaker Session**

 **Preferred Range of Training Score**

 **Any Allies?**

 **Preferable Placement**

 **Cause of Death**

 **I, right now, need a male from District 7, another female for District 10, both for District 11, and a male for District 12**

 **If the tribute you submit is already being used in another SYOT, you may not resubmit that same tribute as that will be unfair to the author of the other SYOT. If the SYOT you submitted to has been discontinued, that is a different story, and can reuse that tribute. Everything else needs to be original.**

 **Now, when it comes to submitters, if I pick your tribute, reviews would be generally appreciated. Hard to know if you like the story without some precursor to it. Ones that make themselves prevalent are who I prefer, but all do get a fair shot at winning. Even a simple "Good job." when referring to the chapter posted lets me know, and I will gladly let you know how happy I am. At the end of the day, I am not looking for the highest review count, but the best tributes around.**

 **The stats for submissions, broken down by district, is on my profile, 2nd section of my profile. It is each district, number of male submissions, number of female submissions per district. Then, total number of submissions, total number of male submissions, and total number of female submissions. Starting date for submissions, final date for submissions, and how many days until deadline. The criteria for submission will also be on my profile as well, under that in a separate section.**

 **Thank you so much you guys, and it'll be near a month till I see you next, so thanks for participating. I am excited to get this on the way and I want to thank you all for making writing so much fun. I know that this SYOT will be a blast, and I promise I'll get through the entire thing, as it as a curse of SYOTS to sometimes never be finished, but my work _will_ get finished. I love you all, and see you on the flipside. May the odds be ever in your favor, ladies and gentlemen. Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	2. Chapter 1: And the Victor Is

**Hey everyone, it's Paradigm of Writing here with the 1st (real) chapter of Death Under the Sky, to let you know that I'm not dead. Submissions have been generally coming in, and that's wonderful! We still have 29 days left to submit tributes, so if you haven't submitted someone, do that! You should check out my profile for all the information- it will be the 2nd and 3rd sections on my profile if you can't find it, but they are headed with Death Under the Sky. I am going to show you all our president, one that is gracious and kind... which is so hard to believe, right? And, big shout out to Ares the War God who promoted this SYOT on his own, which I suggest you go and check out** ** _his_** **, for it is a wonderful story. Enjoy the 1st chapter of Death Under the Sky: And the Victor Is...**

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 **President Ammadeus Snow P.O.V**

* * *

Ammadeus Snow hates airplanes, he downright cannot stand even the sight of them. He felt, down deep, that men were meant to have their feet on the ground, to drive, to walk, to run everywhere versus taking to the skies. It disgusts him to his very core. He contemplates this, waiting for Jerald and Cranston, who were arriving fashionably late as usual. To the victor from 8's dismay, the Head Interviewer would not be joining him for the trip, as Caelan has to stay behind and do his actual job in the Capitol.

The leader of Panem sips his glass of ice water, chilled and satisfying to the body. The azure skyline is marvelous in the morning. " _One will look at the Capitol and find its architecture to be beautiful, the exterior is a true testament to the wondrous powers of mankind. Then, the interior is exposed and they see the full fledged view of our citizens and the despicableness we exhibit. Our people are a disgrace to human kind_." he thinks bitterly, signaling the waitress for another refill of his drink, this time barring the ice and adding full on vodka. For the events of today, he needs to be passed out cold on the sidelines, drunk.

Besides having an intense dislike for the invention of flight, he was often very open for his disproval against the games, against what they could do his fellow friends and family that were submitted to its torture. Only a year ago, not even... he was dancing in a happy tune, ready to sing the fellow woes of the districts as their tributes would be mercilessly slaughtered. It only required Ammadeus to have created an acid rain storm on the Career pack for this to signal his brain to wake up. Bar any hatred for the districts, this was undeniably cruel. Promoted to power after his own deviation of the Hunger Games into _law_ , reworking it out of law was harder than it looked.

" _I'm stupid if thinking my job alone can have the effect to move the masses_."

Ammadeus leans forward, fiddling with a button between his fingers. The button is old, he can tell by the thread ends that dive and swoop between the miniature holes. The button is painted a dark, suave cardinal, one that reminds him of all that blood splattered across camera lenses, on the victims, the attackers, on his soul... everything drowns in a sea of crimson blood. He never tries to think about the owner of the button, for it fell off the wearer during Interview Night, swept up in the local trash sweep.

The wearer of the button was long and dead now, died in the Hunger Games. His name was Birch Lido, the male tribute from District 7 at the time. Wearing a light emerald undershirt with a raggedy brown jacket thrown over it, this button symbolized that something as simple as it, a piece of plastic with thread, could make his own heart hurt. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to not think about Cranston's reflected arrow that entered the poor boy's throat, signing off his death.

The door to the cabin swings open, bringing Ammadeus out of his stasis, a time devoted everyday to just remembering, those who died, and those who have yet to die. He slips the button into his pocket, and grins simultaneously. Cranston Ervack is standing in front of him, eyes dancing around the room in a dance that means nothing is safe on this plane.

"Good morning Cranston." Ammadeus greets.

The teen blinks, jumping back into Jerald's arms. Ammadeus's heart sinks. _Jerald_. "Good- good morning..." Cranston stutters out, dusting himself off.

"Would you care to sit? We'll be flying soon."

"I- I never have flown in an airplane before."

"Few ever do," Jerald admits heartily, opting for a seat next to Ammadeus at the table. "But, we won't have to fly every year. That's going to get very expensive, very fast." the Head Gamemaker deadpans.

The victor does not move, he hardly even responds. "Mr. Ervack? Do you need a medic?" Ammadeus asks in urgency.

Cranston shakes his head vigorously, a bitten lip and worried eyes alluding to far worse. "Caelan. I want Caelan."

"He cannot come. I know you love him, dear boy, but he has a Capitol job to uphold today while you do your job."

"I cannot believe I ever agreed to this."

Jerald snorts from his seat. "I ask that question every single day."

Cranston sits, shaking and trembling the whole way. The waitress places a mug of coffee down on the table, a mountain of flowing whip cream topping the decadent drink. He stares at it, the resemblance to the mountain in the arena is too great, and he cries out, slapping the mug off the table, into the window. It shatters into a more pieces than the president can count, but there's nothing he can do. The poor victor is trying to pick out shards from his skin, droplets of vermillion dripping to the table.

It takes nearly ten minutes for Cranston to have calmed himself down, and Ammadeus can spare no delay. "Today is reaping day."

"I've heard that from Jerald every five hundred feet." Cranston says, knuckles rapping against the side of the table.

"And we'll say it over and over again till it sinks inside your head." Jerald shrugs his shoulders, blunt and coarse. The victor's horrified face is all the precursor Ammadeus needs to realize that maybe this was not the best candidate for the reapings.

"All we ask of you today, Cranston, is to get this over with. You can even do this with your eyes closed as long as something happens, okay?" Ammadeus asks, gentle.

Cranston nods. He hates to comply, but there is nothing he can do about it. "What do I have to do?"

"Each reaping is held in the town square, on the Justice Building stage," Jerald licks his lips. "There's a central microphone in the middle of the platform, two massive bowls filled with slips of paper. You will have some cards to read off of, which is nothing big. Just recite, and things will go as normal. Once you do that, you will be required to then say 'Now, Ladies First.'"

"From there, you'll reach into the bowl that will be on your right, that bowl contains all the names of the ladies in that district ages twelve through eighteen." Ammadeus elaborates.

"You'll go back to the microphone and read the name. After that selection has been picked and is on the stage with you, move to the bowl on your left."

"This bowl contains the names of the gentleman in that district ages twelve through eighteen. Back to the microphone, rinse and repeat."

"What about volunteers?" Cranston asks, frowning.

"The cards explain what to do." Ammadeus nods.

The compartment the trio is in shakes, and Cranston clutches in his seat. It was only the engine beginning to come to life, the plane was about to take off. The president and Head Gamemaker of Panem locks eyes, and nod. "It's time."

* * *

 **I know this is not the longest, nor the best chapter. And it will be far from it. From this point on, as I'll be dealing with the tributes POV's from here on out, with the occasional Capitol POV, everything will be in the past tense, -ed. I'm making this transition as typing in the present tense, although fun, can get... tiresome. With the tense everyone in the world is most comfortable for, I'll be able to make chapters at a much more alarming rate, well not _alarming_ , but you get the idea.**

 **Continue to submit tributes! Some spots haven't even had a single submission yet, such as the males from 5 and 7, not a single spot has been submitted to for Districts 9-11, and the District 12 male has had no one submit for it either. The other spots have at least one or two submissions, nothing more. I am going to, if I get more submissions than expected, start this story earlier than projected. Instead of the 31st, I'm aiming for either the 19th this month, or on the 21st. So, submit away and we might get these games started earlier. Hope you all liked the chapter, and review, I'd love to know what you thought. And, also, don't worry. Chapters here on out won't fall below 3k. Have a great day! Love you all! See you on the flipside.**

 **~ Paradigm**


	3. Tribute List

**Hey everyone, it is Paradigm of Writing here with a quick update. Today, and I know it hasn't been long... but I have decided on the tributes for Death Under the Sky. Reapings will be coming, starting within the next two weeks but I cannot give you a definite. Most of you who submitted to the district you requested got what you wanted... but some didn't get picked and I'm extremely sorry. Some did get moved around and accommodations have been made for your tribute. I'm sorry if it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to, but this was very hard and I wanted to balance out each district as well as I could while still catering, and it was very difficult. If you don't see your tribute in the spot you wanted, keep checking for you may find yourself!**

* * *

D1 Female: Luxe Beaumont ( _Submitted by RookieWriter96_ )

D1 Male: Crux Black ( _Submitted by Jammy122_ )

D2 Female: Artemis Stevenson ( _Submitted by TheGreenForests_ )

D2 Male: Armaus Titus ( _Submitted by Flame Falcon_ )

D3 Female: Fallon Lewis ( _Submitted by MirrorSpirit19_ )

D3 Male: Iory Hathaway ( _Submitted by cymrel_ )

D4 Female: Chasidy Griffith ( _Submitted by AuPalladium_ )

D4 Male: Barrett Thorn ( _Submitted by Jotunheim Storm_ )

D5 Female: Magenta Miranda ( _Submitted by Primrose314_ )

D5 Male: Tycho Brunfields ( _Submitted by GryffindorOnFire_ )

D6 Female: Luna Capricorn ( _Submitted by TheHungerGames19_ )

D6 Male: Connor Torye ( _Submitted by Ares the War God_ )

D7 Female: Fawn Maples ( _Submitted by SatanicGeminiAndAngelicLeo_ )

D7 Male: Luka Tayviel ( _Submitted by ExodiusLK_ )

D8 Female: Jorie Gyle ( _Submitted by Kgunzrok_ )

D8 Male: Madder Tweed ( _Submitted by Twilight Joltik_ )

D9 Female: Nerida Callis ( _Submitted by x-Queen-Of-Applesx_ )

D9 Male: Banh Agnes ( _Submitted by bladewielder05_ )

D10 Female: Joyce Kimbell ( _Submitted by Valar Morghullis_ )

D10 Male: Brock Risco ( _Submitted by Tom137_ )

D11 Female: Adie Conner ( _Submitted by littletripper25_ )

D11 Male: Evan Hollander ( _Submitted by justicesquad111_ )

D12 Female: Sora Kurenai _(Submitted by snow x. fairy_ )

D12 Male: Grayson Lilanic ( _Submitted by SamDeanAndCas_ )

* * *

 **There is our list! Thanks so much to everyone who submitted, and to whose who made it, it is time we get this SYOT on the road. From here on out, none of my chapters will fall short of 3k, and this story will not be abandoned. If I have to put all my other stories on hold just for this one, I will do it. Now, there may be dry patches as there always is, but realize, I am human and am in school, have priorities too. Although I'll never back out, there'll be times when things are spare. As a fair warning, for those who care to hear it. Thanks again, and let me know, what do you think of this tribute batch? Love you all, see you soon with the real story! Eventually, after awhile, I'll delete this chapter as it only 'takes' up space.**

 **~ Paradigm**


	4. Chapter 2: The Jewels of Panem

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with the 1st reaping chapter of Death Under the Sky, Chapter #2: The Jewels of Panem. The way I am doing reapings is, instead of going in numerical order like many SYOT's, I am going in a random order, by using a Random Number generator and generating a random number from 1-12. My first number was 4, so here we are with Chapter 4's reaping. We shall be introduced to Barrett Thorn and Chasidy Griffith, our dear tributes. Man, it was nice writing this chapter. Did it in a whole day too. Started at 7 PM, Eastern Standard Time U.S, and finished quarter to 10 PM. Not bad, not bad. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Barrett Thorn: District 4 Male's P.O.V ( _15_ )**

* * *

The cries of nearby seagulls caused Barrett Thorn to smile, as he dug his hands into the cool pallid sand of the shoreline surrounding District 4. Calm waves lapped the shore, _splish splash_ they went with resounding echoes that warmed his heart.

Today was Reaping Day, and Barrett could honestly not have been more excited than ever. Last year, watching the Hunger Games, and the cruelties that his district endured... it made him sick to even think that his own kin couldn't hold a light to the outer lies, such as Districts 10, 11, and 12. For a matter of fact, Pearl and Wake themselves both died together. " _Stupid acid rain_..." he thought.

Instead of showing up for school like he was supposed to, he thought it would have been a good idea to skip and head down to the beach. On such a momentous day as this, he didn't need to fill his mind with unnecessary things such as the speed of waves and other trivialities. He heard rumors that the victor of the 1st games was going to make a special visit. Barrett grinned to himself, he _knew_ how this year would end. The 2nd Hunger Games would have Barrett Thorn be crowned the new victor.

Killing wasn't necessary for him. It was despicable personally. _He_ wouldn't kill anyone, heavens no. People would do it for him, often how it went. Whenever he asked for something, Barrett received it. The latest fishing rod, a new bed for his room, the highest grade on essay... things like that. With his dusky skin, and even darker cheeks complemented by a curly wave of onyx hair, the darkness flickered towards his eyes- a suave and rich mahogany that captivated all who dared look. Some were harder to trick than others, but he eventually got his way. In all decency, he cared about those he manipulated, as they were puppets and all puppets had a sense of closure... you pulled their strings.

Why, if he had the will to, and half the stupidity to, he'd waltz over to school and demand forgiveness. Just dash those eyes of his, blink once and say... "I'm so sorry..." and the poor teacher wouldn't know what hit her, crumbling like cake to the masterful will of such a player.

Despite his... uncanny ways that some found controlling and vile, he hated abuse. Being given the role of never dating anyone for love was hard to come across, he couldn't stand watching a woman be beaten down again and again. Therein lied his downfall, attacking a woman and being forced to kill her was not high on his list of things to do in the arena, once he got there. Well, _if_ he got there.

"Barrett! Son, why do you have to be such a handful?" a voice called from down the boardwalk.

He turned to see his mother, Lush, striding towards him. The apple never fell too far from the tree with him and his family. She had the same complexity as he did, the same warm and inviting eyes that pulsated beauty and understanding... it was her job to _get_ Barrett, to understand him. He loved his mother, as she loved him.

"I don't know," Barrett shrugged. "Forced habit." he smiled.

Lush sat next to him. "I was excused from work. Believed you could have been in class. Walked all the way there, didn't have the decency to let me know. Knew you'd be here if not home. Walsh will have beaten your ass if I didn't."

He scowled. "Don't mention father. Not right now."

"It's not as if I will tell your father-"

"I'll be volunteering today." Barrett interrupted.

"As in for the games? You mean... the reaping today?" Lush asked.

"Yes."

"Oh," the mother was silent. "Why?"

"To appease father I guess. I've been disappointing him lately, I can see it in his eyes. Failing. Combat training hasn't been going the best, least in the hand-to-hand category... brought home those marks and they were mainly negative. Told me that no son of his would enter those games on their own accord acting like that. Had to get stronger. Which I have. So now, I go into those games and make it to the end. If I win, he gets to be proud of me."

"And if you die?" The word felt like fire and poison to Lush, as it slipped off of her tongue.

Barrett drew a box in the sand, adding a tally mark in the box. "Just another tally mark in a large box of multiple disappointments and various fails. Can't blame him. With someone like me, my looks, my _affects_ , to then go and do something like die or soil the name of Thorn, it's understandable."

"Or you can wait till later and not volunteer this year. Eighteen years old sounds better." Lush pursed her lips.

"No, it can't wait," he was adamant about his decision. "My volunteering needs to happen today and only today. It'll be another failure in that damn box of his and we can sit here and lie, saying we don't believe it when you know, especially you mother, that I'm right. Sounds as if you don't have any faith in me either."

"That's not true!"

"Words are lovely. Actions are pertinent. Do them!"

"Such as?"

"Anything!"

Lush kissed her son on the forehead. "I can never change your mind, seems you are stuck in this mindset of volunteering. Personally, I'd ask you to wait. Or never do it at all. A mother does not a have a child just to see them die."

"You won't have to. I'm not dying in the games. I'm going to _win_."

"Cockiness is not-"

"I'm not being cocky!" Barrett yelled, flinging sand up everywhere.

The mother was breathless, shocked and surprised. Rash outbursts weren't all too common form her son. He was normally calm and collected. "I do have faith in you sweetheart. I'm sure the entire district will be backing you when that time comes. But, darling, realize that things such as this are heavy on our hearts. Walsh will be crushed, as will I. You even said it yourself, repeatedly at dinner that you don't like killing! In these games, it seems as no one gets by without raising that axe or sword and drawing blood."

"I make people kill for me." he said it as if there were no issues. The word kill was all too familiar to him. Heard it nearly everyday in the academy.

After the end of the 1st Hunger Games, District 1, 2, and 4 in an unanimous decision, decided to build special schools that derived off of a normal school for other subjects. They were called academies, nothing too simple, nothing too fancy. The ones enrolled were children from the age of ten to eighteen, as specified from the televised announcement that the Hunger Games would continue. Giving kids an extra two years to prepare meant massive advantages one could only fathom in the arenas bestowed to their tributes. Barrett started last year, and while not being the greatest at fighting girls his age or older in the ring, or for the fact that hand-to-hand combat was stressed... he found comfort in the water, holding a pronged trident that would spear fish and flesh alike.

A few of his friends abandoned him, his new outlook on the world was devastating to hear; an enlightened man turned into a monster who craved action and bloodshed while orchestrating everything from afar. Twas the goal of a puppet master. The arena would be his great stage, not caring if Head Gamemaker Jerald Donner had anything to say about that.

"How would you exactly do that?" Lush questioned her son.

"My tongue can be promising," Barrett admitted, blushing. He never told his mother of his... _influences_. "I make offers you cannot forget, offers you cannot turn down. Those who do my bidding and will then are rewarded by someone else killing them, someone else doing my dirty work. A game of dominoes." he laughed.

"That would be considered a dictatorship, dear. Wouldn't be any better than President Snow."

"Do not compare me to that snake of a man!" he suddenly growled. Barrett Thorn hated nothing more than name of Ammadeus Snow, so called benevolent leader of Panem. He didn't get to know the president like Cranston did, and unless he won, he still wouldn't.

Lush rolled her eyes. "I wasn't, silly. I am looking out for you because-"

"It is the role of every good mother. I _know_. I know. You say it all the time."

"Only because I love you."

"I love you too."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course I do. Mother-"

"There's a sure way of proving to me that you do."

"And how's that?" Barrett raised an eyebrow.

"You come home from these games a victor, and you win. I'll know you love me just from the fact you fought to get home, you couldn't bear the thought without us." Lush hugged him.

"Strong and tender words from such a careful woman." Barrett teased.

"Cool it, or I'll protest against you even getting on that stage."

"Alright... alright."

"I need you back at the house in an hour," Lush said, standing up. "I'm going to go get your father. Reaping starts at noon. Be on time, dressed in something more decent than just a casual shirt and slacks, Barrett."

"I know mother, I can do some things without you, you know."

"I love you."

"I- I love you too." Barrett licked his lips, watching his mother turn around and vanish up and over the sand dunes, back into town, back into a world he couldn't wait to leave behind. He scratched his neck, picking at a scab. " _Did I mean it?_ " he pondered.

Barrett looked out over the sea, one gigantic mass of cerulean flowing in and out. One day, when the games were all said and done, and he was too old to remember, there his home would lie. Out on the ocean, in a world where your neighbors were dolphins and great white sharks or the occasional turtle. Where the crimson puddles of blood wouldn't haunt you in nightmares, how silence would fill a gap normally drowned in one's screams.

The arena was only temporary, it would be two weeks out of his daily life. He'd return, everything would be normal. Such would not be the case, as Barrett Thorn would soon find out.

* * *

 **Chasidy Griffith: District 4 Female's P.O.V ( _15_ )**

* * *

Mornings were never Chasidy's specialty, never have been, never were, and certainly never will be. She yawned, sitting up in bed to see that the sun was peeking through the windows, a gentle breeze quietly lifting the curtains, and that she woke up later than she intended to.

A clock was on the far wall, impressive in color and the ivory metal that constructed it. The hour hand was halfway in the middle between the black donned numbers _11_ and _12_. The reaping was in half an hour. Her eyes widened to the size of cantaloupes. "Oh shit!" she breathed, throwing off her covers.

Today was reaping day. Oh hell. Oh hell... oh _hell_. Truth be told, the Hunger Games were not the most appealing thing to ever happen in her life- ones killing others for the enjoyment of a populace who didn't know their right foot from their left... sickening. Despicable. Beyond words many could describe or imagine. She understood perfectly that one year was fine, two was stretching it, three was inhumane, and any number beyond that was unbelievable. " _You'd think that by the third time we'd all know our lesson. Hell, it's ridiculous that we're forced to even view this. We took their lives, they take ours. It's a fragile and dare I think it, brilliant system_." she thought. Chasidy snorted to herself. Something being brilliantly fragile was an oxymoron, a glass cannon that'd shatter on impact from any blunting force.

Now, given her views on what the Hunger Games represented, it did make life interesting for the weeks that the games took up. Despite her claim that she hated them, deep down she couldn't wait for the exhilarating thrill watching one idiotic tribute go down after another, the momentous beauty could not be understated. Did she get pleasure out of it? No. Chasidy wasn't a sadist. She was an opportunist. The games gave her an opportunity, to be something greater than nothing, to have a life outside of a fisherman, if she was to come back from it. Volunteering was out of the question. Only a nitwit without a brain would be stupid enough to toss away life that easily. Being drawn scared her, and in the back of her mind, Chasidy wished so evilly and desperately that if her name was unluckily pulled out of the damned bowl, a girl with no intelligence whatsoever would valiantly take her place. Just a hope, one that was more than likely never going to happen. Not everyone took a liking to the academy, not everyone was prepared to fight and brave the arena.

Chasidy twisted her hair into a braid, one simple fishtail braid that rested on the side of her neck. For being in District 4, home of the blonde bronze specimen, it was ironic that she was born with such dark hair, the midnight sky above a lush forest, or the filter from coffee beans. Her eyes weren't of a regular color either, decadent and steely gray flashed back at her from the mirror laid against the side of her room.

She opened her closet, one made of wood that pulled back by a string and pulley system. A simple dress, nothing with much flair, was the only article of clothing that greeted her. " _Just great... I knew I should have worn this instead of my other dress last week for the formal. Great, now I'll look poor to the rest of the district. Joyous_." she thought sarcastically.

Sighing with contentment, the girl reached into the closet and pulled out the dress, a plain blue that represented the ocean on a chilly, winter day. Stripping off of her pajamas, she tossed the clothing on. Cleaning her body could wait later. It wasn't as if she was going to be picked to go into the Hunger Games.

Walking out of her room, she found the door to her kitchen wide open. She frowned. Normally her father was in the kitchen at this hour, door locked, smells of grilled fish and lemon butter with eggs wafting her house. Leaning around the corner, she saw the room empty, dishes in the sink, table tidy and clean. A single note was placed on the vase of flowers in the center, a wilting and dying violet. She picked it up, rolling her eyes several times. It read:

 _Dear Chasidy, my lovely girl. I apologize that I will not be here for reaping day. I was called on Capitol business with the town mayor for this weekend, and in his stead as he must be at the reaping, I am his interim replacement till he can arrive. I am sorry that there was no breakfast made for you, I had to leave late in the night. I wanted to say goodbye, but you were passed out, a bottle of champagne clutched tightly in your right hand. Sweetie, when I get back, we'll discuss this drinking habit of yours. It is where all this extra weight comes from; heavy drinking causes this. I'll be back early Sunday morning. For the mean time, there is a set of cash per day in my room. Use that for your meals and shopping over the week. The dear old lady down the street will be checking on you from time to time- if you go somewhere, let her know. P.S, that champagne bottle has been emptied down the drain. For your sake_.

~ _Sincerely, your loving father Gull Griffith_

Chasidy snorted, crumbling the note and throwing it in the sink. "Of course he's not here. Why would he be?" she hissed under her breath. Gull Griffith, great father extraordinaire, always missing, never home... delightful parent.

She wanted to hate him and his compulsion to work- he was a workaholic and that would be his downfall. Being somewhat considered head adviser to the town mayor in the financial department, his job was important and required transit all across Panem. " _What a loving man he is, huh? Can't even have the decency to stay behind on a day where his little girl fears for his life. If- if I'm picked today, and he's in the Capitol... last night could be the last time he'd ever see me. Asshole._ "

In the time that was ten minutes to noon, Chasidy grabbed an apple off of the rack pressed against the kitchen counter, took a bite, and walked out of her house into the salty air of District 4. As announced by the town mayor, the reaping would be held in the town square, so all the kids viable for slaughter, _erm..._ selection, could be roped off like a bunch of cattle. That was something you'd see in District 10, _not_ 4\. They were the pride of Panem by the ocean, providing fish and desirably decadent food that the Capitol longed for.

Due to her father having a high role in the local government of 4, Chasidy's house was not that far from the town square- Gull had to make passing quickly to and from work so fast that if you would blink, he'd be gone. She didn't mind if her home was in the outer banks of the district, exercise would never hurt someone.

Banners with the logo of Panem were draped up and down the walls of the Justice Building, where the mayor lived, gorgeous sapphire chiseled stone that when the sun illuminated off of the dazzling gems, aquariam styled lights danced on the skin of those in the square. That beauty was covered up by the banners, cold cardinal and halcyon swirls blending to form a sickening mustard color with a harsh red to boot. Chasidy was pushed roughly from behind. She turned around, almost wanting to punch the idiot in the face.

"Watch it!" she growled.

She blinked, realizing it was Barrett Thorn, a guy in her academy class due to being the same age. Although Chasidy hardly ever showed up, being associated with the names of her fellow classmates wouldn't require much concentration.

"Sorry. Did someone twist your panties in a wad?" Barrett smirked.

"No," she narrowed her eyes. "I just may twist yours."

"Hey, if we're both in that arena, I give you full permission!"

"You're disgusting, you know that?"

Barrett gave an innocent smile. "I've heard worse."

"Chasidy, dear, please turn around!" a third voice interrupted said girl's rebuttal she was about to lay on cool guy Thorn.

The embarrassed teen faced the voice, said owner being the town mayor, who was holding a needle. "I- uh, apologies Mr. Mayor!" Chasidy babbled quickly.

"Please give me your arm." the mayor instructed.

"Why?"

"Ammadeus Snow requests that every teen from the ages of 12-18 be registered under a system by a blood sample, DNA testing and all. It gives us your age, to help gauge things. So, your arm please."

Chasidy complied, hating to see the draw of blood from her own skin. The mayor grabbed her pointer finger, puffing up the ball on her finger. She winced as he inserted the needle, the pain was unbearably excruciating for something so tiny. A single droplet of blood was extracted from her skin, and then the drop was placed on a slide, taped to a paper. She watched in amazement as the cut covered itself, automatically healing. There wasn't even a scab.

"That's-" she started.

"Miss Griffith, I have many more of you to allot for. Please move on. You're fifteen, go stand in the section marked for the fifteen year olds." the mayor instructed, not giving her any attention, instead grabbing Barrett's outstretched hand behind her.

Chasidy huffed to herself, marching off from the table. Roped lines sectioned off the town square into fourteen individual sections, signs placed at each section that flashed an age. Her eyes seized the neon pink sign that illuminated the number _15_ , and she went to the rope. Another girl her age lifted it up for her to step under, and Chasidy entered.

The sun did little to comfort her, as the teens ages twelve to eighteen, boy and girl, were filed into their appropriate sections, the tense air of the town square becoming tight and heavy, so each labored breath was painful and felt like lungs scraping against hard rock surfaces that stabbed and jabbed away.

A hush fell over the crowd, as the doors to the Justice Building promptly opened up at noon, right on the dot, not a second too early, not a second too late. Generalized reactions that were expected roared up from the crowd as the lonely soul of Cranston Ervack, victor of the 1st Hunger Games, walked into the harsh sunlight. He covered his eyes, the brightness momentarily stunning him.

Chasidy couldn't help it, she had a hand over her mouth in shock, agape and terrified. He looked terrible. The former male tribute from District 8 had dark circles under his eyes, the cheery emerald glow she so vividly remembered seeing on screen only a year ago replaced by something hallow, one that was fake and visibly not true. She could only imagine what those games did to him. It came full circle. Chasidy Griffith was not going into those games without a fight, resistance the entire way.

Cranston's hair was parted neatly down the middle, a light velvet jacket covering a deep black button down and dress pants. He gazed out amongst the crowd, eyes scanning for potential candidates, those who'd be shipped off to their deaths. Their goofy grins would soon be paid tenfold in stupidity, only when a knife was at their throat, their blood coating the emerald green grass... then their mistake would be realized.

He tapped the microphone, a burst of static causing him to jump. Cranston shook, but Chasidy couldn't place if it was rage or fright. The victor stepped up to it, knowing he had to somewhat attack it full force. "Good afternoon District 4. If you don't know who I am, then we'll get familiar. I am Cranston Ervack, from District 8, victor of the very 1st Hunger Games."

"We _all_ know who you are!" a sixteen year-old shouted from the crowd.

Chasidy rolled her eyes. " _We're not even in it more than two minutes and people are already calling out. What is this?_ "

"Pleasure is all mine." Cranston replied sarcastically. She smiled at this, happy somewhat to see that his light hadn't vanished completely.

"Go to hell!" the same person screamed at him. Chasidy scratched her neck. Looked like someone wasn't his biggest fan.

"Today is reaping day," the victor continued on speaking as if nothing was stopping him. "Today... one man and one woman from each district will be selected to participate in the second annual Hunger Games- a fight to the death in an arena..." he let his words sink in.

"They weren't kidding..." a girl near Chasidy murmured to herself.

" _No shit_." Chasidy thought.

"Before I proceed to draw names, there a few new protocols I must address," Cranston said, smoothing his pants, which Chasidy noticed where shaking uncontrollably back in forth. "At the request of the citizens of the Capitol, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are to combine together and create a force the Capitol calls the Careers. In my games, they were created from the very tributes themselves. This idea caught on like wildfire, and it is your job as a district to uphold this."

"An alliance will never win!" a male from the eighteen year-old's cried out.

Cranston blanched. Thoughts of Rye, and Jake, and Eve, and Nydia, and Mako and all those he lost in the games flickered by. Shaken, but not shattered, the victor furthered his explanation. "The alliance rule created by Ammadeus and Jerald during the second day of training last year is still in effect. Should you be in an alliance, and you kill those that aren't in your alliance, that entire group of people can win. Less of you will have to die. Win-win for all."

" _Except that it didn't entirely work out for_ you." Chasidy reminded herself, shuddering.

"However, there is an exception," Cranston licked his lips. "If you kill someone, whether it be by accident or intentional, that it is in your alliance before the end of the games, now the alliance rule will exclude you and now that tribute is fair game as is the rest."

"Ground rules suck, don't they?" a girl from the seventeen year-old's taunted.

"Now, as customary... I shall draw the name for the girls."

Before the very eyes of District 4, a slab from under the stage lifted into view, an impressive bowl filled to the brim with small, folded up pieces of paper. A solid strip of black tape kept the slips closed. Chasidy lost count at the very top, her head swimming that four of those slips had her name on them. Cranston closed his eyes, counting to ten. It was surprising that he had made it that far without collapsing into a fit of tears, spasms, or worse: both. His hand danced around the bowl, grabbing one strand and dropping it back into the pile. A paper stuck out of the rest, crumbled around the edge that stuck out, and the victor seized it.

He was back at the microphone, and he opened the slip of paper. Crisp as day, he read, "Chasidy Griffith."

Chasidy screamed, and she knew she did. All eyes lit up on her, panicked, angry, terrified... multiple emotions reflected in glassy stares that held no emotion from her. She picked her head up, echoing in her mind that the name read aloud was hers. _She_ was going into the games, whether she wanted to or not. And there was not another girl in her district in sight that would volunteer for her. By that point, if someone was willing to, they would have.

The mayor walked over to the fifteen year old section, and lifted the rope up so she could walk underneath it. Chasidy stepped into the aisle, staring formidably at the high rise stage, she could see Cranston's eyes automatically judging her, deciding she was going to die without second glance. Chasidy slowly walked up the steps, stopping in front of the bowl that held the names of the girls. With remorse, she saw the bowl sink into the stage. No time to change things now.

Cranston was back at the microphone. "And now... the boys." He didn't bother taking his time with the guys, as he picked the first one his eyes saw.

" _I don't care who I get paired with_." Chasidy thought remorsefully to herself.

"Maso-" Cranston started to read off the name.

"I volunteer! Mr. Ervack, I volunteer as tribute!" a voice from the fifteen year old male section yelled out, hand shooting in the air. Whoever was on the card had also been in the same district, as one boy was crouched on the ground, crying, the other, the one who called out, jogging to the stage.

 _Barrett Thorn_. Just Chasidy's luck. His onyx hair flipped beautifully over to the other side of his hair, and from the view the rest of the district had on the ground, the two could have passed off for twins- same body type, hair color, near resembling facial structure. Barrett Thorn and Chasidy Griffith were District 4's representatives for the 2nd annual Hunger Games.

"It looks as if the Hunger Games has the very first volunteer. I am pretty sure other young lads like you will take up the same steed." Cranston said, acknowledging Barrett's bravery.

A lone tear slid down Chasidy's cheek. " _I never even got to say goodbye to my father..._ "

"And now, District 4, here are your tributes. Barrett Thorn and Chasidy Griffith. May the odds be ever in your favor." the victor said.

The two tributes locked eyes, Barrett's smirk making Chasidy want to puke. She couldn't wait to wipe that smirk off of his face somehow, someway. It was possible. No matter how much she hated it, she was getting home alive. If it meant to kill her most trust worthy partner... so be it. There was no going back now.

* * *

 **And there we have it folks! The reaping of District 4! I am trying to make these as interesting as possible, for these do drag on once in awhile. The next reaping Chapter I'll try to have out by Sunday the earliest, no later than next Tuesday. When I start getting to the Capitol, that part is actually easier as it is moreso a copy and paste format. So we have our two tributes for D4! What do you think of them? Do you like Barrett, do you like Chasidy? Do you dislike either of them? Based on how this went, how would they fare in the arena? Let me know, by reviewing! Reviewing will help in prolonging your tribute's life, but ultimately it is the tribute themselves that count. I just did the generator, and we are moving on from District 4, to District 10. We shall see, won't we? Thanks for reading guys, and I'll see you with Chapter 3: Burned to Nothingness. Love you all! Bye~!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	5. Chapter 3: Burning into Nothingness

**Hey everyone, it's Paradigm of Writing here with the 3rd chapter of Death Under the Sky: Burning into Nothingness. I am so, OH SO sorry about the long ass wait it took to get this chapter out, and I hope you all understand. In the end, I am never going to abandon this story, as I know how important it is to you all, and to me. It'd kill me if I did that to you all. I've been struggling with some things, depression namely, and sometimes I didn't have it in me to sit and down write something. Today on the 22nd of December, I just wrote a good 4000 words of this chapter in a sitting, taking my slowness and using it for something. I sure hope I delivered. We have Joyce Kimbell and Brock Risco to get through today, submitted by the lovely Valar Morghullis and Tom 137. These tributes were awesome to begin writing. I am going to love Joyce, I can already tell. Brock is growing on my heart already, as well. Enjoy the chapter everyone!**

* * *

 **Joyce Kimbell: District 10 Female P.O.V ( _14_ )**

* * *

"Today is the big day, huh?" Phillip Kimbell, Joyce Kimbell's father asked, his hands masterfully working away at her hair at the kitchen table.

Joyce shuddered, causing her father to momentarily lose hold. "I don't want to think about it."

"We don't have to. It's okay."

Reaping day. Just the first word was enough to send tremors and chills down her spine, something so ghastly and haunting. In District 10, the act of reaping things, culling livestock for meat and all of that didn't bother her. It was when humans were involved, where there was a chance _she_ could be involved. Closing her eyes, Joyce tried to go back and think... no, she wished to imagine, trying to visualize that the empty seat in front of her was filled with something, _someone_.

Phillip sighed. "You're thinking of Ronnie, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry pumpkin, but you know she's gone."

"Because of me." Joyce said, her voice weak and airy like a ghost.

The hands working at her hair stop. "Don't say that. You know it's not true."

"Mother died while having birth to me. I was giving her heart palpitations and-"

"It happens all the time, not just here in District 10. In all the districts, and even the Capitol. Matriarchal failure occurs everywhere, J. You had nothing to do with her dying." Phillip admonished her.

Joyce pushed her seat back from the table, causing her father to move with her. "I want to go eat out on the porch. Where it's windy."

"If you want, we shall." the father nodded.

Joyce Kimbell, at the age of fourteen, was motherless. Ronnie Kimbell, at the stunning age of 39, died in labor. Something about the heart giving out with that last push and how the new representative in the family never even got to hear the mother of the house speak as she was already dead when Joyce came out of the womb. Phillip felt like it was his fault, and when Joyce discovered the truth, _she_ always thought it was hers.

Passing by a mirror, one drilled into the front door, all she saw was regret. Her petite frame of 5'3 meant no boys- way to small to _even_ reach the lips for a kiss. Her fiery oak hair, one that would resemble the embers of a waning fire, detracted from her soft mud brown eyes. In a nutshell, she was a contradiction.

The strong muscular frame of her father behind her caused Joyce to turn around, slow and delicately as if she was a wilting flower about to crumble under any sign of significant pressure. Phillip was strong, tall, boisterous, but on the underhand, gentle and loving. She didn't know a better man, one she could always fall into and expect to get caught.

He hugged her, the warmth and comfort of someone close settling her nerves down to a halt. She didn't care about the world, nor the reaping in the next hour. Life was going to be alright for the two Kimbell's, as long as they stuck together.

Phillip opened the front door to the house with one hand, expertly holding two apples with the other. Joyce took a seat in her favorite spot on the wooden rickety old porch, next to the rusted nail and black iodine spot that looked like her birthmark. Often times she'd find a small caterpillar or ant colony that she'd shoo away with gentle kindness because it was her location, and her location only.

"Apple?" her father offered.

"One does need to keep up their strength." she smiled, taking the fruit and biting into it. The sweet taste of a ripe Cherry Red filled her, consumed her and gave a single tantalizing second of brief luxury. Phillip chomped down on one heartily, although the sounds of his chewing were somewhat repulsive.

"School's canceled today, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. I don't know if our jobs are however. I believe the adults still have to work."

"That's only for the fact that if you take the children out of the puzzle, you still have the parents and elderly and all that. A district, let alone an entire country cannot run by itself. People need to be there to keep us up and running."

"Which, I believe sucks."

"Watch the language young lady."

Joyce stuck out her tongue. Her father cared too deeply about appearance, and having a lovely household. No foul language, no rude gestures, none of it. Given her docile nature, she understood the restraint. But, when she saw, and _heard_ what would be said at school and in the marketplace and in the fields, it only added to her longing of using such abrasive methods. Phillip probably would've smacked her upside the head so hard.

She dug her nails into the porch, biting her lip. "Today feels so weird..."

"You nervous?"

"Extremely." Joyce shuddered.

Phillip hugged her tight. "As long as I'm watching you from that crowd, dear baby girl, I am not losing you. You will not be called up on the stage."

"That's reassuring."

"It's meant to be."

"I want something tangible to think about while I'm in that crowd, Dad." Joyce whispered.

"Anything at all?"

"Anything." she confirmed.

"Have something in mind?"

"Mother."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure."

Phillip sighed, resting his hands against the last step of the porch. His cerulean eyes were distantly smiling, gentle and at ease. "Ronnie was the most beautiful woman in Panem. Countless girls came after me in my youth, which may be surprising to you. She had such perfect auburn hair, nestled in the nape of her neck, braided and soft."

"Was she nice?" Joyce asked.

"Extremely. She sometimes would talk to me in class when we weren't working, because she thought that my shirt would rip if I got angry over another history question. First time I ever spoke to her, she said I had potato salad from the lunch line dabbing my chin. Made for a good laugh."

His daughter chuckled, imagining it right then and there. There would stand Phillip Kimbell in wherever he was, with a pallid and yellow piece of potato stuck to his chin, mayonnaise lines streaking his jaw. She never got to see her mother, so she could only have a figment, a missing piece of what the opposite side would have looked like. "Sounds sweet..."

"Ronnie had gorgeous, oh so pretty blue eyes. They were like the misty sprays emitted from the hoses that clean the cows. She had this air about her, one of confidence," Phillip smiled, nodding. He could feel his wife's presence around him, hugging him tight, kissing him like a ghost. "I remember when I asked her to the Senior school dance. Scared out of my mind. Knees knocking together, stomach in knots. I was sweating so profusely, you would've thought I was just another cattle being rounded up."

"How did you guys decide on a name for me?" Joyce looked at her hands, rubbing fingers together to feel the coarseness of her nails.

Phillip smirked to the wooden porch. "We fought like hell for that name," he said, not minding his language. "I wanted to name you Jane, something simple and realistic that I could keep. She wanted to name you Leia. Never told me why exactly. Some of my friends said it referenced popular culture or something, back in the golden Capitol days. We settled on Joyce before she went into labor. Ronnie had a feeling that something was going to go wrong, and that we wouldn't be able to decide the name later. She called you Joyce based on joyous noise. That somewhere in the heavens, there'd be trumpet sound because we had a beautiful baby girl born to us." A tear slid down his cheek.

His daughter made a sympathetic noise, snuggling close to her father. "I love you Dad."

"I love you too. Always will."

"Promise to never let go?"

"As long as you don't, of course." Phillip rubbed her head.

Joyce heaved, her dad's words replaying in her head about how Ronnie knew something was going to go wrong with the birth, she was going to cause complications... ones no one wanted. "Did- did the doctor tell Mother that she was going to die?"

"J- I beg your pardon?"

"Be honest with me," she looked at him straight in the eyes, tears threatening to spill. "Did she know she was going to die after giving birth to me?"

Phillip was speechless, face ashen, mouth open to want to reply. "Sweetie... you know I can't tell you that."

She stood up, angry and bitter. "Why? As my father, you should care for me! I don't want to die one day not knowing if my mother knew of her own demise or not! I hate you!" Joyce screamed, stomping back inside the house.

He watched her go, head in his hands, as he watched the half eaten apple get thrown out the front window, bouncing like a rubber ball back onto the porch, down onto the dirt sodded ground, mangled and brown. Phillip winced as the door to Joyce's room slammed shut inside the house, knowing it was hers by the way the wood creaked, the way the porch buckled and groaned underneath the noise. This was not going to be a happy reaping, not a chance.

Phillip sighed at this, placing his hands back at his sides. " _Such a troubled young lady. Blames herself for a death she hardly knows anything about. When life throws you a curve ball... she jumps out of the way instead of embracing it, embracing the change so it can wrap around her and evolve her. My Joyce is torn between self-hate, and hating those that caused Ronnie's death. When you want your girl to be happy, there's nothing you won't and can't do. If my girl is picked... can I do whatever is asked of me? As her father, I- No... I will not think about this any further._ "

He paused, feeling the breeze whip through the street, the calm pocketed rays of sunlight fall through the overhead canopy of oak trees towering above the neighborhood. Tranquil times in District 10 were going to change, take a headlong flip instead of staying still. This new reaping was going to mean so much.

Phillip stared at the apple core now getting picked apart by the ants. Last year, the girl for District 10, Lilianna Yi, never got to prove anything to her district. Jake, the male, killed her by accident. Accidental death didn't mean anything, as death was still losing the last heartbeat and falling away into an inebriated black wave of unconsciousness.

His daughter was not going to be one of those. She'd win those Games, if she was picked. He'd make sure of it. He already failed his wife, Phillip Kimbell was not about to fail his daughter. Never. Never.

* * *

 **Brock Risco: District 10 Male P.O.V ( _16_ )**

* * *

Brock Risco cussed heavily, the barbed wire picking at his hands, stabbing pores in his skin to create blood craters that'd scab over. " _Stupid wire. Stupid hands_."

He didn't need another scar, he had plenty of those. Poor boy could practically feel the one on his left cheek rippling with a bristle, as the notion of blood leaving his body was too much of a thrill. He wanted to rip the ox that gave him that injury apart with his bare hands. His family would appreciate that. A tribute would be no different.

"Hey, meat for brains, going to help me life these manure bags to the stables? Your dad wants us to have them out there before we all get called to the square for the reaping, and we know what happens when we don't do what is asked. I _really_ don't want another lash. My back looks like whipped cotton for Panem's sake. Brock, are you even listening? Brock!" a voice from afar said, then urgently crying his name.

He broke from his concentration, staring back at one of his best friends, Eren. One wouldn't help to be jealous of the boy, with a much larger farm. However, since he wasn't a prick, he thought that helping his friends would be the best bet."

Brock cracked his neck, his muscles longing to be let free of the overbearing stress of work. "Y- yeah, just give me a second, okay?"

Eren scowled. "Dude, your dad will flay us like we're a piece of meat!"

"I said to let me be," he growled back. "You have any self respect?"

Brock Risco could be considered by the ladies of the district that he was a great guy. At a towering six feet, his build was enough to make people run for the hills to grab their shotguns _or_ to run to his muscles and drool all over them. People said there were never any advantages to wielding a machete, but one look at him and they'd be proven wrong in a heartbeat. His jet black hair looked like slick oil in the sunlight, varying in sharp contrast from his hazel eyes with speckles of gold flakes interspersed between the white. His lips were puffed up more than usual, given he had eaten the saltiest piece of fried chicken he ever tasted for lunch, the poor boy looked like one of the famous singers back in the day who sang of heartbreak and old cowboys with hats. He wondered what happened to the olden days of his people, the ones who called District 10 home.

One of his scars tingled, but he couldn't find exactly where it was. Brock scoffed. " _Man... some of these scars give me some good history_..."

There was one from an angry cow, when he had milked it the wrong way and touched an utter in the place it should have not been touched. That one hurt for weeks. A sickening scar ran down his back from the time he fell off the barbed wire fence into a pit of roses, except the roses were all cut and didn't have thorns save for one prime rose, the only one that was pink from the whole bunch. A single spike stuck up like a middle finger and ripped right down his back. He screamed about that one for a few years. Brock ran a hand through his hair. Such good times.

He could see Eren tapping his foot from far away in the hazy horizon, the sun making everything in a yard radius hard to see. The heat was sweltering, higher rates than normal for an August afternoon. The routine was nothing special. Wake up every morning at seven, eat breakfast in under a minute, often chowing down food _while_ walking to the fields outside his cabin for five hours of grueling work.

That work consisted of plowing fields, shoveling hay into barrels for whatever animal decided to get hungry and eat outside of their normal diet. Milk the cows for the umpteenth time in a week, horse around with the other guys working for a moment... then take time to pleasurably eye whatever girl came out to pick berries from the nearby grove of strawberries and blueberries. Often times, the fruit paled in comparison to the girl.

"It's been like a year, now." Eren complained.

Brock heaved, almost wishing he could just squeeze his friend's neck to shut him up. He loved him, yet hated him all the while. "Fine. Because this cow shit is so important..."

A flatbed was the boys' only company in the field, glossing a cardinal coat of paint with muddy tires. He took pride in his joy, that mean machine was his. All he needed was black spray paint to write out his name _Brock Risco_ along the side. Black to match his hair. Red, for the blood, sweat, and tears it took to run the world of District 10. Next to the mud, the foulest smell ever reeked from the bed, meaning that the new shipment of manure came in to be lifted off and plodded down into the ground for the pathetic cows to graze in and crap in. Daily life for a cow. Eat. Get milked for some diary that could be sold later on. Shit everywhere, as there was no place safe from the rear of that damned animal. Sleep. Restart the cycle. Brock wouldn't mind being a cow for a day. Often times, a well spent rest was just what he needed. Between all the talk about the Hunger Games and the terrifying reaping which he didn't want to admit made him scared, sometimes a person needed that peaceful environment to just rest. Shame he didn't get it as often as he liked.

"You know how your father gets when we don't do the work we're asked to do..." Eren warned.

"My father gets that way because he's scared of our town mayor, who is in return scared of President Ammadeus Snow up in the rich ass Capitol." Brock snorted.

"You should be more open minded about what you say. People cannot be that bad."

"What are you? A supporter of those freaks with their feathered caps, leather skin, high awful voices and the fact that they love blood lust as a form of entertainment. Get over yourself, sicko."

"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it."

"Sometimes, you are just as stupid as you pretend to be."

"Ouch. Cuts real deep." Eren rolled his eyes sarcastically.

"Least I know how to defend myself." Brock countered.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"The reaping today. If I'm picked, I guarantee you I could win this thing and return. Whatever rewards I make, you'd get zero of it."

"Don't be another cocky dick like Jake Quipp. We know how he entered that place, and we know he exited it. An arrow to the heart is nothing different than a stinging whip full of venomous words." Eren reminded his friend.

"Jesus Christ," Brock breathed. "You sound like my mother." He picked up a pile of manure, eyes lighting up on the pen where the literal stacks of shit would go.

He made one step, and then dropped the bag in shock as a loud bell, one that resembled a shrill whistle, blasted through the field. Eren didn't bother picking up a bag. Both knew exactly what it meant.

"You know what that means..." Eren whispered, dropping his voice dangerously low.

Brock kept a stupid grin on his face, he almost looked cute. "Reaping time."

The two boys looked at each other, scoffing. They were both filthy beyond belief, grey pit stains hiding underneath plaid dress shirts tucked in to keep the belts at the curved hips. Grease clotted their jeans, dust and dirt caked their shoes. His friend scratched the back of his neck. "Misread the time. Thought it was only 10:30, not near high noon for us. I suppose we won't have time to get clean before being forced into the square, huh?"

"Indeed my brother, indeed."

The two shook hands, unsure of whether or not this would be the last time the two would see other. Talk spread like wildfire in the district, from how the reaping meant you'd never see the light of day again... and that the drawer was the old victor, the face the district hated seeing.

 _Cranston Ervack_. Brock thought of the name to himself while hopping over the barbed wire fence to the dirt road that'd lead him to the square. " _What an arrogant prick_." he snorted. The boy thought it would be fine and dandy to go date another dude, thinking all would work and that there'd be no complications. In District 10, one was caught having relations with the same gender, and not taking the time to even bother hiding it were shot on sight. Brock often held that trigger. Not that he hated people like the victor from eight, but they sure poisoned his pride. Other than that, the farmer down to heart was very easy going and liked people of all kinds. It was when he was insulted, when people crossed the boundaries that are never meant to be crossed... that was when it mattered to him.

The town square had been draped in white over night, pallid ghost sheets hiding the prized possessions of District 10. Seeing the turnout of people, Brock felt his chest tighten up. He hated crowds, and crowds hated him. Eren frowned, sensing something was wrong. "You okay? I can ask for a cup of water or something, given the unbearable heat..."

"No, I don't need it. Just... there is _too many people_ here." Brock hissed through gritted teeth.

There were roped sections in the square, signs for a boy, and signs for a girl. There needed to be no explanation to any of the people's in District 10, they had gone over protocol so many times that it could be recited just as fast as any verse from the big blue book in chapel. Or the District 10 anthem. Boys and girls between the ages of 12-18 were to be selected and yadda yadda yadda, Brock didn't have time to notice the subtleties.

Rumors that the other districts had to have blood drawn whilst getting chosen was no myth. Since the mayor of District 10 was so far up Ammadeus Snow's ass, the entire district population was required, and in his case, forced, to get blood drawn so no one who was afraid of needles had to be pinned down on the uncomfortable ground and stuck with a sharp object to draw one singular drop of crimson life. No one needed that. The district didn't need it, the world didn't need it. Panem didn't have time for it. Brock certainly didn't give a shit how it went down as long as he came out fine and on top.

Being in the fields meant that travel to the square would take longer time, and by the time he and Eren arrived, there were one of the last ones. The mayor, high up on the stage, nodded to an individual that from Brock's point of view, couldn't see. Until he saw the glossy sheen of oak hair, did his hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up.

Eren, who luckily snagged a spot next to him, leaned over. "He looks worse than he does on the television. I have half the mind to believe that the Games royally screwed Mr. Sex Toy over."

Brock rolled his eyes. " _He's childish, that silly E. I wouldn't stoop that low_."

On stage, there stood Cranston Ervack, victor of the 1st Hunger Games from the pathetic and never noticed District 8. He had swapped his outfit for the District 4 reaping into something more casual and fitting for sweltering heat. Low cut shorts that stopped mid thigh exposing way too much white skin clung to his legs like wet moss to a tree, a short yet stylish shirt dyed a dark sunset covering his arms.

Two bowls, one on his left, and one on his right donned the stage. Like before, District 10 knew the procedure. The bowl on the left meant the girls, the bowl on the right meant the boys. Cranston tapped the microphone placed already on stage for him. District 10 was going to have a fast and speedy reaping.

"Your mayor has given me the common courtesy of letting myself and the political leaders in the Capitol know how the entire district has already been given the run down of how the next five minutes or so will take place." the victor licked his lips. In his mind, he prayed. " _Please don't look like Jake and Lilianna. Please, God, oh please_."

Brock rocked back and forth on his heels. Though the thought of the Games didn't disturb him like most, the idea and preconceived notion alone was unnerving. "I just wish he'd get on with it..." he muttered under his breath.

"Don't worry. He will." Eren nodded.

Cranston could feel the impatience settle over the crowd, so without thinking twice, he dipped his hand into the bowl filled with the girl names of District 10, seizing one piece of paper that was filed normally and had no changes. Ripping off the black tape, he stood at the microphone. "Joyce Kimbell." he breathed.

Three resonating sounds happened. First, in the section of adults, there stood a man Brock didn't recognize, although the name stirred something in him. Had to be the father of the unfortunate girl who was picked. The second sound came from the girl herself, one from the fifteen year-old section, the same young lady who slid herself out of harms way and into the aisle to walk up the stage. The third disturbance came from Cranston himself, realizing that the new tribute looked nothing like the last one.

Brock's blood ran cold. The familiar face of Joyce Kimbell stirred an unwarranted memory in him. It was a rainy afternoon after school, and the poor girl had lost her damn mind for the sixteenth time that week on her dead mother. He was the only one to comfort her, to hug her tight. This happened a week ago. Her auburn hair blew like a ghost in the wind. No one even volunteered for the girl.

Cranston, after hugging Joyce tight, had a name for the males. One that Brock never would have expected. "Eren Chrysler."

Brock's best friend looked up at the mentioning of his name, tears already spilling down his cheeks. His blonde hair trembled as he shook, crying out in fear and pain. Brock didn't blink an eye, hand shooting up in the air.

"I volunteer!" he shouted, voice proud and brave.

As follows, the District 10 tributes were going to be Brock Risco and Joyce Kimbell. Their shared history meant something interesting... one that would soon be uncovered in the arena. Only time would tell.

* * *

 **So that makes two male volunteers for the first two districts. Do we see a pattern? There we are guys, it's Chapter 3 out of the way. I have like another forty to get through, heh. I'll be honest guys, I have a specific game plan I'm working through here. I have two other stories that are prevalent on my mind and need to get squared away, so I won't be updating Death Under the Sky again till one of those two stories is updated, which I'm deciding will be The Victors Assault. Then I'll work on my next chapter for this one. I'll never disappear on you guys though, know that. What did you think of our two new tributes? More angst for down the road or do we have some true contenders this time around? Going to the random number generator, our next district will be yet again another Career tribute sporting district, #1! I've been looking forward to this one and the fact that it came close in the batch is perfect. Thanks for reading guys, and please review! Let me know what you thought! Your reviews will help consider how the tribute fares later on. Next chapter is #4: Skin Deep Beauty, Surface Lies. I love you all, and once again, I am so sorry about all this. Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	6. Chapter 4: Skin Beauty, Surface Lies

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with Chapter 4 of Death Under the Sky: Skin Deep Beauty, Surface Lies. True to order I have updated a story before this one and then went right on to do this one. We have here today the District 1 reaping, where we shall meet Crux Black and Luxe Beaumont, submitted by Jammy122 and RookieWriter96. Both submitters have given me great characters and it was my pleasure to write them today. Let's see... I started this at 9:34, stopped at 10:20 for a break, resumed at 11:10, and am now done at 12:22. Good timing? I hope so. Hot off the press, but I hope it's been enough to mull you all over. I have a huge project I'm working on for school this week, Monday-Friday, so I don't know if I'll get to any updating. This may be the last one before the new year. I'll tell you before we get started here that these two characters were fun and I had a blast making this chapter. My depression somewhat feels better because of this, and I want to say thank you to my two submitters for it really meant a lot to have heightened spirits. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Crux Black: District 1 Male P.O.V ( _18_ )**

* * *

" _There can always be room for improvement, never stop believing you can go higher_." eighteen year-old Crux Black thought to himself as he steadied the sword in his firm grip.

Today was Reaping Day. No time like the present to make a show for your skill and get in the middle of the wolf den. Training for an entire year meant that his skill was to not go to waste. It was his last year after all. He was not going to let that chance just slip from his fingers. Unlike half the other eighteen year old males in Crux's section of the academy which were all just scared and frightened wusses, he was prepared for anything. Killing wasn't out of the question. Looking at Cranston Ervack, a brilliant guy who was gentle... even he killed. If that scrawny ass from 8 could do it, so could Crux Black. Which he intended.

Brandishing his weapon down the front of his chest, his eyes rested nicely on the middle of the stainless steel weapon. A dummy about ten feet away stood in all of its cockish plastic glory, sky blue with an onyx black X in the middle. A few people nearby watched in curious spectation, a miracle may be about to be performed by Mr. Black.

Crux breathed heavily, and instead of charging at the dummy like many onlooking expected, he held the hilt up behind his right ear, and then chucking it like a spear, vaulted the sword forward so it dove straight at the target- wind whistling and all. The sword hit the dummy straight on, in the forehead, and then split down the line into two. Crux didn't stop there, reaching behind his back where a couple of knives were strapped to his sides. Eyeing a light fixture from above, he took his careful aim, and with lighting fast reactions, took a running start to then do a somersault, before landing on one knee and flinging the knife with a flick of his wrist. The bulb shattered as metal hit metal, and the light _chinked_ out. The second projectile went flying at a dummy about four yards down the training center, cutting the plastic figurine in half.

The heavy dummy split to the floor, clattering and clanging with a ghastly echo that resembled one of a gunshot to a person's heart. Crux stopped to catch his breath, although he was hardly tired. Placing his hands on his knees, the sound of rapid clapping from someone who made a pattern far too obvious caused a smile to glance his lips.

"I can see that my skill impressed you, like usual." Crux smirked to himself.

The person causing the great uproar sprinted over to him, throwing their arms around Crux in a hug. The male squeezed back evenly, happy to see his brother. Jamie Black, at the age of sixteen, saw his brother as the pinnacle man of the house, there was no one better. The two brothers patted each other on the shoulder, and besides the height difference, from afar, you wouldn't be able to determine who was who. Not twins, but spitting images.

Crux stood at a tall 6'2, Jamie a tad shorter at a more complementary 5'8. Crux's curly mahogany hair was spinning out in various directions like crackles of lightning that couldn't be grounded. His warmer chocolate eyes looked at the carnage of glass and broken dummies out before him. He chuckled lowly. His practice was good. Almost _too_ good. His eyes said one thing while his mouth said another. He never gave off true emotion from them, hardly ever.

Jamie rocked back and forth on his heels. "You didn't even hesitate from slinging that knife all the way over to that dummy." he pointed, marking the one cut in half by the knife currently lodged in the wall.

"Sure did." The older brother turned to retrieve his blades, causing the younger Black sibling to notice the inked marking on the back of Crux's neck.

"Hey... C, what's that on the back of your neck?"

Crux froze. His brother was referring to the midnight and cardinal inked 'H' stamped in the middle of his neck where the spine met the skull. "It's a- it's a tattoo," he said, licking his lips. "Don't... don't tell mother. She'd flip."

"Damn right she will," Jamie winced, helping his sibling. "When did you get it?"

"This morning."

"With what money?"

The older of the two looked down at their feet, face ashamed, yet proud. "Beat up a younger cadet for the cash. Must've been a birthday present or something stupid. Just, please Jamie... don't tell Annabelle." Annabelle Black was their mother, currently a widow, currently on the prowl for a husband. Their father, Orion Black, died in the Dark Days rebellion that came to District 2. The current president of Panem, Ammadeus Snow, shot him straight in the head with a caliber pistol. Whenever Crux saw the smug face on the television in the mess hall of the academy, he wanted to rip the Capitol assholes's voice box out, with a few inches of flesh. Someone could've thrown in Ammadeus's larynx as well.

Jamie whistled. "You broke the law."

"Well, I didn't exactly beat them up with my fists..." Crux trailed off.

This got the younger sibling to frown, furrowed eyebrows coming together. "Then- how'd you do it?"

"Beat them up with words," the trainee brother explained, words tumbling out in a babble. "She thought I was cute so I used it to my advantage. Gave her our house number in case she wishes to call me, and in return I got the money for the tattoo."

"So... bribery?"

"In a sense."

"I can see that the tattoo is of an 'H'. What's it stand for?" Jamie asked.

"Nothing you need to know about," Crux ruffled his younger brother's hair. "Something you wouldn't understand."

In all honesty, Crux had no desire or affliction to tell Jamie what the tattoo meant. The color had to have somewhat made a guess towards its meaning, being fiery cardinal warped together with a symphonic midnight black. He had the uppercase letter H engraved in the back of his neck to represent Hell. He was Hell. Hell was going into the Hunger Games and returning with the lives of all those who dared encounter it. No one who messed with the fiery pit escaped with their lives, and Crux made sure of that. Besides, with the skill he had... no one would dare try and balk up courage to take him on. His tanned body and six pack proved that District 1 gave a good cream of the crop. Even if his arrogance meant that scolding happened once in a while.

" _Pah_ ," Crux scoffed. " _When you've got the talent like I do, hurtful words bounce off me. I'm an armadillo and porcupine mixed in one, added some wasp poison to my sting, gave myself a wolf's bite_."

In only two hours, the entire teenage section of District 1 was to be rallied up and forced in pens of some kind like Avox slaves and then selected for the 'honor' of representing home in a bloodbath. Crux, naturally, given his driven competitiveness and battle spirit from Orion, had a crippling desire to volunteer. He needed the blood lust and severity of killing to help appease that need, no matter what the consequences were. Unknown to him, sometimes fate never worked out the way it wanted to. He couldn't bear tell Jamie that he was planning to leave. It would crush the boy's heart in a matter of seconds, matted up and chewed... spitted out onto cold cemented sidewalks of iodine gray, that were malevolently gelid and then swallowed up... Crux couldn't do that to his brother. Never in a million years.

Crux waved goodbye to his brother, who went to go practice some climbing up the rocky slope near the entrance of the academy. _Versatility University_ was the name of the facility, but those who were enrolled knew it became a battle ground. Any who wanted to test their brute cunning, strength and dominance... or their likability made their way to the school, taught in the finest art of battle. The first person to sign up? Crux. Obviously.

He wiped the sweat off of his forehead that was beginning to perspire. Just because he was good at what he did didn't mean that working off a sweat came as easy. The amber hue of the swinging lights above, all the clamber and noise... the bodies... it caused the training hall to become moist in sticky body odors and foul liquids only secreted by exercise. Crux hated sweating, even if he knew it was good for him.

His eyes glossed over the list of activities he could do. He wasn't about to go back home and needlessly sit on the bronze couch watching the clock tick by. Crux's time was too precious for that. _Knife Throwing, Archery, Sword Wielding, Fire Making, Camouflage, Dexterity Room, Sauna and Spa..._ his eyes lit up at archery. In the Dark Days, Orion was a trained marksman, having shot the game used to feed the armies. When he died, Crux took up that position. Although a blade felt more comfortable due to the longer usage of it, a bow was not an unfamiliar sight.

The shooting range lied on the opposite end of the facility, basked in an emerald glow from the searchlights in the rigging. There were four lanes, almost like bowling. One was used by a girl, and Crux didn't bother seeing who took up the space. He opted for the far left hole. Three different bows were on a wooden table in front of him. One was a sterling silver, another painted a sleek cerulean. Crux seized the third option: wooden and stiff. Something about it reminded him of his father, down deep inside. " _Perfect_." he thought.

On the right side of the cubicle was a rack of arrows, each colored a different color around the tail. Red, yellow, white, green, blue, pink, and black. Crux saw the chart below the rack, explaining what each arrow could do. Red meant incendiary or explosive, yellow arrows secreted a lethal poison into the skin called anthrax. White arrows contained sprouts of mace at the tip, and on impact, released blinding pepper spray in the target's face. Green arrows had speakers attached to them so when they landed, noise erupted all over the area. Blue arrows were razor sharp, meant for cutting things more so than actual maiming. The pink arrow caused Crux to raise an eyebrow. Something called _Raucous Behavior._ Given that the first line had the word sex written in bold marker caused him to not read on any further. Black arrows were normal. Decisions, decisions.

Crux tapped a couple fingers on the bow. Then again, he _did_ have two hours to try and test the experimental arrows. Red ones were first, he concluded after a moment of hesitation. Careful to not set a flaming inferno on himself, the arrow was placed against the string like so to line down with his target. The space out from the cubicle was donned in neon light, basking navy and amaranthine streaks that made his eyes dance. A lone halcyon target stood in lonesome solitude out in the distance, roughly thirty yards. After lining up his shot, Crux released.

A surreal blast of heat him in the face, blowing back his hair and making the arrows on the rack rattle. To call the ball of fire just a ball was not doing it justice. This explosion mimicked that of a bomb. Sunburst cardinal fire licked at the dummy, charred remains splattering to the floor. In a rotating motion, the dummy was replaced by another, the former sinking into the ground as a machine unseen from Crux's eyes whirred and moved underneath him.

Yellow came soon after, but he couldn't see any effects on the exterior. Knowing that poison would hardly do anything not even living, he skipped it after the first shot. A thump of white was next, and little dots that looked like gnats from Crux's position swarmed the dummy, before falling to the floor like gentle raindrops.

When the green arrow hit, the entire facility covered their ears as a song, some song in a language that resembled Greek or a Romanian language in the same family drowned out the rest of the sound in the room. Crux felt his eardrums rattling. This noise was sure to incapacitate someone when the little devil donning an emerald coat was released. The dummy that followed was cut in half by a clean cut, the blue arrow seemingly sharper than the sword he wielder earlier. Crux opted to then skip the pink and white arrows. Their explanations, or lack thereof were necessary to know that he chose on _not_ using them.

Crux stood back from his handiwork, seeing that, as he placed the bow down on the wooden table, a little note on a pallid note card was stamped to the arrow rack. He furrowed his eyebrows, picking up the card. In a fancy manuscript, it read, _Nice shooting, Tex. You know your way around a bow. Maybe volunteer today and use that skill on the unlucky foes in the arena_.

He crumbled up the card. " _Foes? I don't have any foes in my world. Only victims. Prey. This facility thinks I don't know about volunteering, that I desire to do it no matter who says I can't. Pathetic machine. Can't even keep up with my mind_."

The male walked away in a huff, no longer interested in training when he'd only get told things that he was already thinking long beforehand. What was he? Two? No. Crux Black was an impressive specimen of District 1, a fighter and warrior who'd knock down anything in his wake.

If people thought that the first year of the Hunger Games were something special, they'd have to think again. With Crux Black in the arena, it was a whole new ballgame. He was going to enter. He was going to _win_. No one, not even the Capitol, could stop him from doing that. If they tried... he'd laugh and say, " _Be my guest_." Crux Black was ready. He was determined. The 2nd year had its victor.

* * *

 **Luxe Beaumont: District 1 Female P.O.V (** _ **17**_ **)**

* * *

An ivory brush ate away hungrily at a wave of flowing blonde locks, tangling and painful as it was ripped through blockades of hair and too many clips. The individual being 'operated' on cussed in an unladylike manner, which was acceptable for the action occuring atop her head.

The seventeen year-old Luxe Beaumont gritted her teeth while combing her hair, hoping to be ready for the Reaping in little under half an hour. Her icy diamond eyes stared determinedly back at the grand mirror on her nightstand, fierce and compassionate in their fixated gaze. Today was not the day to mess with her. In a nutshell, Luxe Beaumont was the crown jewel of District 1, as if each little district had their own Aryan race of blondes and blue eyes- which she so expertly fit into that category. She was beautiful, in presence, essence, nearly all of herself was doused in a wave of marvel from head to toe.

Her sharp cheekbones were accentuated by puffy lips coated in a rosy hot pink lipstick applied as she stepped out of the shower. No one knew how to step out in style other than Luxe Beaumont and everyone in District 1 knew that. Given her rather drastic and upper class appearance, she had a heart of gold, seldom feeling the need to belittle others or put them down based on anything other than color.

When there was someone in need, Luxe didn't hesitate to use all that she could to uplift that person's spirits- it meant too much to her to let someone go down in a ball of pity and despair- especially if she had a say in the matter. Promiscuity came at its finest. Often with her helping hand came the need to do a little more guilt tripping in the bedroom, even if it ended harmlessly with no pants being dropped. Despite the warm soul she exuded so elegantly, Luxe couldn't resist the occasional tug of the heart strings before strangling her newfound 'lover' with them later in the evening. She wished to do this to none other than Crux Black.

Her family was obsessed with this ogre for a man. In the beginning of her life, Luxe knew who to love, who to be friendly with, who to stay steady with but not get too close for comfort, those to never speak to out of the kindness of her heart... and then those to hate. Crux Black was one of them. For starters, he was egotistical. Good looking, but then his attitude ruined that one tenfold before even shaking his hand. Sure, his hair was good, he had a dazzling smile that made her weak in the knees... but he opened his mouth and the apocalypse started. Prolific at weaponry was the second downside. Luxe used the academy on several occasions, she wasn't _opposed_ to the fighting, but did not like it as her forthcoming way of getting into or out of situations. Mr. Black on the other hand thrived on such desires and temptations, almost like a misplaced orgasm thrown in with bits of flesh, cardinal drops of blood, and mind-blotting laughter.

She glared evilly as if her eyes had the power of the sun at a letter crumbled up and thrown away in the waste bin by her dresser. Her damn idiot for a father, Obsidian, felt that it was necessary like any good father in District 1 would do... marry off his children without them having any sort of say so. Signed just a week earlier, it was decreed and put into paper and mouth that Luxe Beaumont would become betrothed to Crux Black, the day after the Reaping was held. Now, if unluckily, one of the pair was chosen to participate in the drastic event as the Hunger Games, then so well... life went on and the duo had a missing partner, dear in the arena of savages and blood.

Luxe saw the letter taped to her mirror in the morning, before promptly cussing at the top of her lungs and grabbing the accursed paper and ripping it and crumbling it into shreds. No man like that with the non-existent credit such as Crux Black had to his filthy name was going to marry her. Not on her damn life would she accept ridiculous terms as those labeled in the document. She had half the mind to use her nails and drive them into the skull of whomever authorized the deal between the Beaumont's and the Blacks. Luxe snorted. " _We're like a modern Romeo and Juliet. Except it isn't the families fighting, nor are the two children in love. The families are blinded in fake affection for each other while the two newlyweds with to slit each other's throats with the curtains hanging in their rooms_."

She grinned to herself. If there was one thing in the world that Luxe loved more than fashion was her allegories, and then applying them to business. If the entire marriage thing went through, but then hopefully, as Luxe prayed so many times, failed... she'd become a businessman and follow in the Beaumont history line of successful works.

The district called her the Ice Queen, for never showing emotion. How ironic was that her supposed lover in arms, Crux Black did the same. Both violated their titles in the up most loathsome disgust the two had for each other. Sometimes sacrifices needed to be made in order to uphold dignity, and this was one of them. Luxe knew why people were often friendly to her in the suspicious manner that friends normally weren't. Everyone had an ulterior motive in life. Whether it be love or lust, greed, power, rivalry... no one did anything just because they could. Obsidian taught her that.

Luxe trailed a finger down the mirror, wiping off a smudge of eyeliner against the rim of the glass frame. Earlier in the morning, before the rest of her house awoke to the clanging of pots and pans from their servants, the doorbell rang. Some git was delivering the mail, and in that mail was the stupid, _stupid_ , assigned marriage letter. Instead of spitting rage all over the blissful deliveryman's face as she knew how uncouth and unprofessional that'd be, she took the paper with open arms. Ran a nailed hand down the poor boy's back, whispered delightful words in his ear which caused him to blush... oh she knew how to run a man. This Crux Black? She couldn't figure him out worth shit.

That was another thing the district so stereo typically labeled Luxe as. Manipulative, just because she knew what people wanted to here. She referred to it as... smart, ingenious, cunning. Not underhandedness or foolery. Those who came across as a bitch came across that way _because_ they put themselves out that way. Luxe portrayed herself proudly, she had nothing to hide, but knew many did and wanted to exploit those weaknesses. In the end, as she'd tell herself this countless times before going to sleep... it _WAS_ for the better good of the people Luxe would come across. Only idiots like Crux Black would guilt trip her.

Nightmares often troubled her. Tycoon issues. Monetary struggles that couldn't make end meets. The ungodly action of sex with her worst enemy. Bankruptcy. A meteor shower. All commonplace in the Beaumont home. Luxe had them more often than most.

Spraying an entire can of hairspray into her blonde curls that were beginning to frizz, Luxe was set in almost everything. Her reaction, her need. If she wasn't picked for the reaping, then who would be?

"Am I going to be ready to take that selfless step into saving someone's life if you know that there is no chance for them?" Luxe pondered aloud, shuddering. Moral questions broke her sometimes. People, like she said, had ulterior motives. It didn't mean she was cleansed from either. Everyone wanted to save their own skin in desperate times no matter how hard they denied or refused it. A bitter seed would be planted in that person's heart, and like a nagging headache, would come back and consistently remind you of jumping ship. Politicians did it all the time. Why can't you?

She shook her head, a cold sweat breaking out down her forehead. Now was not the time to address life altering issues. No one could make an answer and stick by it. Luxe nodded to herself in the mirror, checking that everything was ready. " _I'll just figure it out when I get there. No harm in that, right?"_

Her family was out and about. Luxe didn't care where. They wouldn't show up to see the reaping. Such trivialities like that were boring, and had no meaning whatsoever in life. She rolled her eyes. " _Watch. I'll get picked and my family won't even know till they return. May serve them right, actually. Might get their head out of their asses for once. Wouldn't hurt, would it?"_

The sun in the sky made Luxe Beaumont, as she stepped outside of her home, look like the Rapture. Ethereal in a pallid gold blouse down to her ankles, with the precious long locks... anyone who _didn't_ fall in love had to be blind. Even gay men would know a thing or two about it. Just ask the mayor.

She set her shades down over her eyes. It wasn't that her eyes hated sunlight or that she never saw it- the power rather was too overbearing, and any sensible person would close their eyes or lest protect them without going blind. It was clear to everyone that the Beaumont's were rich. It meant that their house was close to the square, where the reaping would be held. Unluckily, she knew who would be there to greet her like the little devil he was, given how the academy was nearby as well.

Before she even set foot in the square, she found him. Least the guy made a decent attempt to spiffy himself up, hair still curly, forehead still glistening in perspiration. Probably still the same prolific egotistical asshole he came across as. Nothing different. Luxe lowered her shades some, staring critically at Crux Black out in the center of the district. He was standing so perfectly, as if he was almost waiting for her. Her affirmations were confirmed when the two locked eyes and Crux's lit up, head lifting up in an accepting nod. Deciding that there was never any time like the present, she walked up to him.

"I see that the academy must've missed the memo," she snarked. "They were supposed to leave their trash inside the building, instead of letting it join the rest of us."

Crux chuckled. "Feisty today, aren't ya?"

"For a good reason, too," Luxe snapped. "Don't play dumb with me and act like you don't know what my father did."

"I'll be honest here."

"A first." she snorted.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Crux said.

Luxe blinked. His voice seemed so real, he seemed so assured... so poised and realistic. "I- uh... you don't?"

"No. Now, if you'll excuse-" the boy with the arrogance painted a mile high began to say, before being interrupted by a loud trumpet blare. He paled. "The reaping is starting." He gripped Luxe closer to him.

"Let go of me, before I chop your balls and dick off." Luxe hissed low. She hated when he grabbed her, anywhere on the body for that matter.

"Speak to me when this is all said and done, please?" Crux asked.

"I swear, you pull anything-"

"This isn't one of my cocky tricks here, I promise you."

Luxe huffed. "Fine. Any false move and something important on your impoverished body is coming off."

"I solemnly swear," Crux held his hand up, bowing. He began to walk away. "I love you my darling, be a good wife for me, will you?"

With that, the boy disappeared into the thickening crowd of twelve to eighteen year-olds, ranging from nervous and afraid to confident and cocky. Luxe didn't notice this, or the fact that the Justice Building had opened up to allow the mayor and Cranston Ervack, victor of the 1st Hunger Games, to walk out on stage. What she did notice, and with fine particularity, was that she had just been played by the ultimate sleazebag. "That douche!" she hissed, stomping her foot, before being cut off by a screeching burst of static.

The entire congregation wised up immediately, as the clearing of a throat was heard over the microphone. Two bowls, filled with white slips of paper, were placed on two wooden stools on either side of the victor who was standing alone on stage. Luxe held her breath. In somewhat impervious glory, there stood Cranston Ervack. Someone she admired. Someone who came out alive from his nasty experience in the games. This reaping was no joke.

"Good afternoon to you all," Cranston said up at the podium. The victor looked better than what was seen in earlier districts in the day, hair neatly combed, eyes upright and alert. Luxe couldn't tell, but the teen was taking some good old fashioned drugs to keep the spirits elevated. "I am Cranston Ervack, as most of you already know. I'm the victor of the 1st Hunger Games, here today to select a man and a woman between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate in the 2nd year of the Hunger Games."

Luxe was lost in his words, something about them felt natural and comforting to her. Unlike most in District 1, she liked him. There was nothing extraneous about him, least what she could see. He went through hell, came out of it a changed man. Him being gay had nothing to do with it- his character was better than most. All she wished was that he'd get it over with. " _Please... make this quick._ " Luxe silently pleaded.

"I am, uh... going to draw a name from the girls bowl," Cranston said. She could tell he was in a hurry, moving too jittery and hurriedly for that of a normal, calm human being even if his other appearance gave that illusion. The victor grabbed at least twenty slips, ripping them all before one was spared form the carnage. Going to the microphone, he opened the slip, and clear as day, read the name of, "Klarrisa Romanov."

A shriek came from the crowd, and Luxe turned to see that a girl, not too far from her, had released the cry. Luxe's heart banged heavy in her chest. This selective participant couldn't have been any older than thirteen, and by the looks of it, never picked up a weapon in her life. The moral question came back to haunt her, once again. _What will I do when the soul is picked, and it's not me?_ The time ticked and tocked, her decision needed to happen.

Luxe swallowed, before yelling at the top of her lungs. "Mr. Ervack, I volunteer!"

Cranston's eyes searched for the voice, seizing it with feverish intensity. "It, looks like District 1 has their first ever volunteer. Miss, if you may please come stand up next to me and take Miss Klarrisa Romanov's place..."

Luxe inched forward, nervous. Sweat broke down her face, but she didn't care about that. Somewhere, the family of Klarrisa Romanov was rejoicing. Some girl was idiotic enough to take their daughter's place. As she passed by the now crying girl, she heard a meek "Thank you." That's all she got for her efforts. Luxe Beaumont felt a rage burn within her. All she got for her help was a saying anyone said out of courtesy. Not on her watch.

She joined Cranston on the stage, gazing out at the faces of the crowd. Her eyes searched those faces and found Crux Black's, curved up in a cheeky grin. Luxe imagined the knife, used to scrape off the asshole's face once and for all. Except she didn't need to wait, as Cranston said something she couldn't quite hear. The victor reached into the male bowl, and dug down deep into the bowl. A single piece of paper was then retrieved, and read back at the microphone.

"A... Mr. Crux Black!" Cranston boomed.

Luxe wished she had a camera, for the look plastered on Crux's face was priceless, more money would be given to that face than any other. But then that was when it hit her. Her least favorite person in the entire district, maybe even all of Panem or the globe was her partner. Partner. P-A-R-T-N-E-R. As in helper.

Shit.

* * *

 **And there we are my lovelies! District 1 reaping is out of the way. How is Mr. Black and Miss Beaumont to you all? Which one do you like more? All my money is bet on Luxe I assume, as Crux is hard to like, but we'll get there. Always do. After doing the number generator thingy, I have a new number, which is 6! District 6 shall be the next reaping, and I am really excited for those two tributes. Again, I had a blast with this one. As a secret between you and I, my readers, this cast is my favorite group of characters that I've written about in a long time and none of them are canon! This is probably since Eve Gladius, Rye Henderson, Jake Quipp, and Cranston Ervack of Capitol's Strike. But, this doesn't mean Luxe, or Crux, or Chasidy is winning! Oh hell no, there are still wonderful greats ahead that we've seen and haven't seen, so you all, take that with a grain of salt. Everyone else, don't sign off now and expect it to be the Rapture. It ain't. Please review and let me know what you thought. Chapter 5, our District 6 reaping, is called Never Can I Lose You. I love you all so much! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	7. Chapter 5: Never Can I Lose You

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with our true Chapter 5 of Death Under the Sky, our District 6 reaping titled Never Can I Lose You. It's been a good week and three days since I've updated this last, with the trouble this site had with the reviews, but I'll be honest, there is really only seven or eight of you, not even that of who submitted who review. I made myself clear early on that, while I don't need essays, a simple nice chapter would suffice, especially if your character is featured in the chapter. I want to give everyone a fighting chance, not have odds be stacked against people. I won't name names, but those who do review, you know who you are. Anyways, today we have a good pair of tributes, Miss Luna Capricorn submitted by TheHungerGames19, and Connor Torye by Ares the War God. Both were solid tributes, ones better than others, but I liked writing this. Did it one day again. Remind me to stop doing that, guys. My fingers will fall off, and we don't want that. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Luna Capricorn: District 6 Female P.O.V ( _16_ )**

* * *

When did the sky go yellow? That was the question Luna Capricorn often asked and instead of getting the answer she wanted, the dear sixteen year-old was stared at as if she had an extra limb growing from her stomach. In all seriousness, Luna wanted to know. When did the sky go yellow?

Those asked would turn their heads up and look. Back they'd go, some blinking, some choosing to not answer her. Answers ranged from _The sky's blue_ and _Color blind perhaps_... Luna would stomp her feet and cry bitterly that people were just stupid! The sky was a dying, sickening gold with the disease of capital, dishonesty, and the foul, sickening scent of dead flesh. Ever since the Hunger Games had been introduced, profit ran Panem... and everyone succumbed to it. District 6 was caught in the middle of it, no way out.

"Are you going to eat?" asked her brother, Luke, nudging her from the weaving staircase of intricate thoughts.

Luna blinked. "I... um... only thinking."

"Like you always do." Luke snickered.

"Oh hush it."

Out of all the people in the world, there was no one Luna loved more than her brother. Her father, Giovanni was high on that list as well, but in her sibling... she saw comfort, and understanding... and other characteristics a normal eleven year old boy wouldn't be thinking. He _knew_ why the sky went yellow. His immediate response would be _The stupid Capitol far away..._ and Luna would ruffle his hair and give him a heart warming smile.

Luna was a cookie-cutter girl for District 6. Bright sand bleached blonde hair, emerald eyes... it was surprising that she _wasn't_ dating someone. Luke was the same, hair and eye color combined to make a spitting image with the opposite sex.

"Are you nervous about today?" Luke asked, tone serious. Luna closed her eyes for a moment, liking the fact that the brief dark snap caused her to not look at the damned halcyon sky. When she opened them, her lips were twisted into a thin scowl.

"More enraged than anything else, because it is the Capitol doing this, like they did with the-"

"Yellow sky," her brother finished for her. "I know."

"I should be fine." Luna reassured him.

"Mom and Dad want to speak to you before you go."

Luna's face darkened, and she shifted away from her brother, moving her chair at the table father over. Absentmindedly, she tugged down on her shirt, trying to hide the black and blue bruises that dotted her shoulders and arms.

In the Capricorn home, sometimes events stayed secret to half of the family. Luna's father, Giovanni Capricorn, was an amazing man. Tall build, strong muscles for slamming away at the steel that made the train tracks for Panem... cut chilled mahogany eyes, tinted oak hair... he was a good guy all around. How he married a witch by the name of Cynthia, Luna will never know.

Her mother, Cynthia Capricorn... a tyrant would have been a more apt description than _mother_. There was nothing maternal in that woman's body. She had been the assistant to the town mayor, before being discharged after unruly sexual conduct. Given that Giovanni worked in one of the lowest, yet most important jobs in the district, no one told him of his wife's actions outside of the home. _Or_ inside for that matter.

Cynthia's rage doubled over after work, and she found the perfect subject to test her anger out on. Luna. A slap here, and punch in the gut there. _Why couldn't you just be a boy for the family and do us all a favor? Get a sex change!_ Luna shuddered. Those words weren't her favorite, but they weren't the worst to come out of her mother's mouth. Luke, every day, after eating breakfast with Luna, would head out into the District for school, and then hang out with friends till dusk. Giovanni worked late hours, but Cynthia had a horrible work etiquette and often left whatever deadbeat job she could find far earlier than allowed. Luna had school from nine in the morning to two in the afternoon. Whenever she came in the front door, her mother was already waiting, ticked off by some coworker who spilled coffee all over her or... well, the list went on _and_ on.

Every year since she was ten, Giovanni, on Luna's birthday, would take her by the hand and go on a walk. There was a particular hill in District 6, higher than others, that overlooked the train yard. She always had a fascination with the color silver, and seeing it in its prime as the night sky watched from above... that was a view she'd never trade for the world. There, by lying on their backs on the gentle grass, Giovanni and Luna would stargaze. She memorized the constellations at a young age, always knowing the direction of where the North Star resided. Luna never knew the use of it as a kid, but with the oncoming reaping, its usage could become practical.

On that hill, there, she could be herself. Luna loved laughing, loved finding the smallest things in life to adore. They were all around her, surrounding her in a presence only described as subtlety. The way water dripped out of the faucet, or how, in the morning, she could watch the fog lift off the ground with the oncoming sunrise. Her favorite idiosyncrasy in all of the world was the feel of buckling wood, the splintering groan that popped out needles and birthed splinters... and she couldn't explain why she liked it so much. She _just_ did.

Luke broke her from more drifting off when he placed his bowl of oatmeal in the sink. His grin was irreplaceable. Being siblings, and both being fairly smart in their studies, the two often contested each other for higher grades, even though Luna took way harder courses given her age. "What's your grade in English?" he quipped slyly.

Luna couldn't resist a smirk. "98."

"I have a 99," he taunted.

"Again? That's the second time in a row that you've beaten me by a point!"

"How about that self-defense class of yours?" Luke said, turning on the water.

"A 100." The number rolled off of Luna's tongue.

Unknown to her mother, Luna enrolled herself privately in the self defense course held by her school. Since the first Hunger Games last year, the town mayor wanted to somewhat prep any further candidates to have a decent level of knowledge in fighting, so they weren't bumbling idiots in the arena and died by a lack of any training than sheer stupidity. Cynthia hadn't gone after her with any weapons, but if she did... Luna had a way to fight back.

"What'd you learn this week?"

"How to knock out the breath of your opponent. I got a fair grade." Luna mused.

"Yet you still have a 100?"

"It's possible."

"Sure it is." Luke rolled his eyes.

Luna brought her brother close and gave him a hug. Reaping day was upon them, and she couldn't help but think that if she was selected... how would she view those she was going against? Would they be worse than her mother? " _Absolutely_." she thought grimly.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah... I'm just thinking." Luna whispered, although she didn't intend to.

"About?"

"The games, of course."

"You're better than them, you know that." Luke comforted. Whomever _them_ were, she'd have to figure that out herself.

Luna stared off at the tile of her kitchen floor, gaze losing focus as all the details became heightened to her. The way there was a small crack at the corner of two tiles conjoining... a tiny ant scuttling between the grit and dirt... her eyes snapped from one random thing to the next. In the arena, her eyes couldn't do that. She'd have to focus on one thing only, and it'd be staying alive and getting out of there as quick as possible.

"Can you be honest with me?" she asked her brother, voice hollow.

"Anything."

"If I am picked today to go into the Hunger Games, and there is no one to volunteer for me... could I win?" Luna's words felt strange to herself, as if she spoke a lie. She couldn't win the games even if she tried her damned hardest.

"Sure you could!" Luke answered cheerfully.

Luna blinked once more, unable to tell if he meant that out of genuine belief, or for the fact he was kin and _required_ to say that. "Do you mean it?"

"I do," he agreed. "You're smart. Luna, you are one of the smartest people in this district for your age. You have an ingenuity about you few have. You have a heart of true gold, unlike the ones that cloud the leaders in the Capitol. You know how to defend yourself."

"Never carried a weapon."

"I'm positive that almost everyone in the games from day one to who knows how long will have never picked up a weapon before in their life." Luke pointed out.

"I just want to have something tangible to hold onto." Luna balled her hands into fists so she didn't start crying.

"Then let that be me while you're out there today. My heart will never leave you. You'll always be my big sister, dead or alive. I love you, I hope you realize that."

Luna felt the tears come, and out they came, relentless in their force and their pain. All the pent up struggle with Cynthia, the impending doom that could await her... the fact that her only solace lied three hundred feet up a grassy slope on the opposite side of the district, or that no one in her family knew of the trouble that befell her... it came out in one tide.

Luke watched her cry, but didn't say anything. It wasn't his place to chid and chastise, but to console. His sister needed that. He needed that. "Hey, pick your head up here. You're supposed to be the strong one of us two. I just know big words to confound my enemies." he snickered.

She sniffled, wiping a tear away. She hadn't had a release like that in a long time. Her only fear came from failing a test in school. Luna needed to make sure she didn't fail at living, that she passed the test of _not dying_ , if the time came for that. She gripped her brother's hand. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably die." Luke chortled.

Luna let her resistances fall, and she smiled. "You- you may be right about that one buddy, just this once. And that's something school can never teach you."

The two embraced, and it would only be a matter of time before the Capricorn crest would take a severe beating, and a tragic loss.

* * *

 **Connor Torye: District 6 Male P.O.V ( _17_ )**

* * *

Arguing was never one of Connor Torye's best skills. He could lay a mean insult or an eye-opening promise with ease, but if forced to combat a topic and made to exude as much passion as you could towards said choice, and he'd fail miserably. District 6 didn't necessarily hone in on those sorts of skills and those were life talents you needed to learn.

Speaking of arguing, he was trying to keep a straight face while his mother barked at him with the importance of the Hunger Games out in the middle of the town square, where in ten little short minutes, the first ever reaping for District 6 would take place, and that for two unlucky little children, one lad and one lady, they'd be whisked away to die. Cheery thoughts on the occasional Monday. Happened all the time with him. No problem.

Connor chose to ignore his mother, and rather stare at his arms and observe just how pale they were. He wasn't as white as say, a ghost, but close enough to resemble the color of provolone cheese which was a degrade lower. He ran a hand through his hair, a stunning shade of chocolate that glistened in the sun when wet. He had a particular fondness for feeling the curls of his hair enclose his fingers whenever they slid through, but he often kept that to himself.

Instead of interrupting his mother, Velma Torye, a high and classy woman at the comfortable age of 34, he kept to himself. Connor normally did that, on days whenever he felt that the extra input wasn't needed. He stared at anything other than his mother's face while she spoke, once again reminding him that if his brother is picked, he must go in and save him from an awful _awful_ fate of fire and death. If he could talk back without repercussions, he'd probably say, " _It's not like we're going to literal hell, mother."_

In one word, if someone was to sum him up, it'd be a strategist. He heard of rumors circling in Districts 1, 2, and 4 that there was an elite cream of the crop being raised up to combat the other tributes, but he scoffed at that. If he was put in that arena, his skill set would work well against the arrogance of those thought to be built for the games. " _The harder they are... they harder they fall_."

The incessant babbling from Velma wanted to make Connor scrape his ears against cheese graters. He loathed his family. They were the worst around. Being born out of a rich and wealthy namesake, as the Torye's ruled District 6 somewhat with their power, his parents and siblings felt they were a pay grade above the rest, just because they had more green cash in their pockets.

What the Torye family lacked in kindness and compassion and smarts, they filled it with money. Like Connor would always say to them, your wealth isn't going to matter in the end. It won't save you from death. You can't become immortal. Stop trying. Live normally. He didn't know where he got that trait from, since everyone else he knew that had a blood tie relationship to him was spoiled and so stuck up each others asses that they couldn't see straight. In one breakdown of the Torye clan, it'd be- chauvinistic asshole, chauvinistic asshole number two, chauvinistic asshole number three, chauvinistic asshole number four, and then you had Connor.

It all started with his father, Augustus. Named after the Roman emperor. Connor was well versed in his historic knowledge, it sometimes was the only release from the dull single minded life of his family. Having that name right away told anyone else watching that this man, he was a tad bit too conceited for his own good, and Connor couldn't help but smile whenever things didn't go his father's way. Being a sadist? Perhaps.

Then there was Velma. Told to be the glue that kept everything together when truthfully it had everything falling apart. Walked around in high heels manufactured by the Capitol, often intentionally stepping on the hands of little children as she passed by. She had her nose permanently stuck up in the air like a beak, impoverish in all of its cockish glory. Connor willed that a bee would fly up her nose and get stuck, someone so pompous deserved the worst. Velma knew her own son hated her, and how a mother could live like that, he honestly didn't know. She favored every other child that came popping out of her womb, but when it came to Connor, her love didn't reach as far.

Connor wouldn't be able to get the title of being the only male child in the house, as the attention was thrown on the eldest child of the Torye family, Gregory, who may have been worse than his parents combined and that was rare and horrifying at the same time. For the lucky bastard, at the age of eighteen, he had this one year of the Hunger Games to survive through, and then he was home free, where he'd bathe in wine and hopefully drown in his red black liquor pool. Gregory felt that because he was favored, it was just an excuse to bully him, as he often did by pushing him around, hitting him. The same old same old that every abuse case was. Underneath all of that- the shiny clothing, the clotted eyes... he was a coward. Gregory had no intent to volunteer, even if his own flesh and blood was picked. How heartless. Connor wanted, just like at Halloween how there were jack-o-lantern faces carved on pumpkins, he could do that for his brother. Once the mouth stopped running, you saw how pathetic he truly was.

Now, Connor knew he couldn't live alone without someone of the opposite sex being the very spawn of his mother, and that was tasked towards his sister, Rhylla. She was a young thing, at the age of thirteen. He sometimes reveled in the fact that his sister had five years of the unbearable waiting to then get out of the reaping phase alive. She was spoiled rotten. Got everything she wanted. Petitioned against the mayor to hold private school for the rich who could afford it, and Connor's sister was coined with the invention of private school to all of Panem. He wanted to slap the smugness right off.

It was a real mystery how someone like him could be born from a family such as his. He truly had no idea. Connor could only pray, although he was hardly religious, that he could live to eighteen without killing everyone in his life that seemed to be above it all.

What separated Connor from his family, alongside the fact that they were all killing themselves slowly by surrounding themselves in only temporary luxury, he was friendly. He knew where to cross the line and act like a papa bear to be blunt, but that was something he took pride in. No one would march on his territory and tell him how it was supposed to be done. He made things work by the logical way of seeing how it all played out before giving a straight forward answer. Trivial things like that.

He glanced at the town hall, where a grandfather clock sat on stage, the face large enough to be able to read time from where he and his mother stood, which was dead center. Now there was only five minutes left till Panem made catastrophic history to its nation once again. Connor often found a trend in that. It wasn't the districts that messed up. It was the Capitol, and their stupid ideals and their stupid mindset that, like his family, they were better. Better hearts meant better people, not monetary items.

It was passed around the dinner table more than once in his house of what would exactly happen if one of their family members was selected to go into the games. No one would volunteer for any of them, least for Gregory and Rhylla since they were self-centered bitches who deserved to die, but Connor bit his tongue. Appearances were important to the Torye name, and he knew not to... desecrate it. He was confident that someone would volunteer for _him_ if he was picked, as he was actually nice, but then again... maybe he wouldn't want someone to do that. Sometimes, Connor Torye needed a break from his family, and two to three weeks away from his family was not a bad idea.

That didn't mean he wanted to die, Connor was not suggesting that in the slightest. But, the games were considered a good place to be if you needed time away from things that gave you hardships. The Capitol was a luxurious place, closest to heaven on Earth many on Panem would ever feel. It was a depressing consequence that death could result from such a trip, but all paid in the expensive price of blood.

Connor went back and forth with the thought of if reaped, would he kill. His answer to that was a resounding yes, bringing it back to the boundary aspect of his mind. He cared too much about his own life to volunteer as he hadn't taken up on the opportunities for self defense, and he also was not stupid unlike some in the district, which he knew those type of human beings existed. " _Bless their soul_." he thought mournfully. Bottom line, with the Hunger Games, Connor was prepared, but not in the way one would think. Physically, he'd struggle. Mentally, he had it in the bag.

Coming from such an affluent and powerful family like the Torye's did have its own... merits if you will. He knew it wasn't _all_ bad, though a damn large majority of his bloodline made time in the home insufferable. But, besides the point. Connor could be attributed to having good looks, his hair and eyes and smile and everything else all played a role. He had his fair share of girlfriends before. All awful people, which made his knowledge to love and resistance to fling himself at every girl who moved... but he did not have cold feet when it came to that type of stuff, which was an asset in the arena as it could be assured there would be some stupid git for a girl who would think that flaunting their sex appeal would automatically mean a win. Connor would laugh as he would dive a knife straight through the face of that ignorant girl if one existed.

He still swears he isn't insane.

"Have you been listening to me, Connor?" Velma screamed at him, disrupting whatever thought process the boy was in.

He made a smug face back at him. He truthfully didn't care for authority when there was none to give. "No," he responded.

"That'll get you in trouble one day." his mother pointed out.

"I only do it to you and father because everything you say is just banal bullshit," Connor sneered. "Come up with a competent thought for once and maybe I'd accept you as the awful parents _and_ people you really are."

Velma slapped him across the face, but truth be told, he probably did deserve it. With his parents, he truly could not hold back half the time. "You will _not_ talk to me that way! Whether you feel as if I am trash or not, I am still your mother! Learn respect!"

Connor rubbed his jaw, trying to imagine what violet imprint was smashed into his cheek from the blunt slap. He went to retort when he heard a snide, whining voice from behind him. "MOM! People are looking at us funnily."

Yep, that was his family. Said voice belonged to Rhylla Torye, the one and only. Velma shook her hand vigorously, snapping out the slap. "I know," she hissed. "It's because your idiot of a brother just disrespected me."

"That's a reason right there! You don't ever learn do you?" Connor sent a pointed hand up in the air, furiously.

His brother, Gregory, elbowed him. "Do you need me to beat the shit out of you _again_? What is wrong with you today?"

"All of you!" the distressed boy responded.

"I think Connor lost his medication..." Rhylla teetered on her heels, feet kicking up the gravel.

The aforementioned male in question, on whether or not he took loony medicine, opened his mouth to rebuttal when he was cut off by the town mayor walking out of the Justice Building, towing someone by the hand who seemed to not want to face the world.

"NO! You can't force me to do this! Help me!" a male voice cried out.

Velma furrowed her eyebrows together, a very unladylike mannerism of hers. "Is that... Mayor Tiana pulling Cranston Ervack out onto the stage against his will."

"Seems like it."

Connor, midst the confusion, noticed how the town square had silently filed in. The females had sanctioned themselves in clusters, some males getting together to joke around while everyone stared at the spectacle on stage. The last time anyone in District 6 had seen Cranston Ervack, he was normal and talking about his experience in the arena a whole year ago. Now, what replaced him was a feral, wild animal. Hair in shambles, eyes darting everywhere. The victor was currently trying to push the District 6 mayor off of him so he could run back into the Justice Building.

"You cannot- I refuse," the victor was babbling, frantically, in spastic motions, kicking out and trashing about. It was evident that Cranston was having some sort of mental breakdown. "Call Ammadeus Snow or Jerald Donner! They'll set everything right! I- I want Caelan!" he screamed hysterically.

The mayor, by the name of Tiana Uppington, fitting for a bitch like her that Connor never liked to dwell on, let him go, and the poor victor scurried back inside the Justice Building, tail between his legs, howling the whole way. Tiana sighed to herself, muttering something only the front row of people near the stage could hear. She turned, straightening her suit, stepping up to the microphone that Connor hadn't noticed.

"I- I apologize for what just took place on this stage." she said to the congregation.

Gregory leaned into Connor's personal space. "If you win the Hunger Games, will you lose your mind like he did?"

"Go die in a hole or something." he hissed back.

Velma pinched Connor on the arm. "Manners!"

Tiana, on stage, decided to become head escort for the time being. "As it has been discussed multiple times before, you know that today is the first ever reaping in District 6 for the Hunger Games," Someone in the audience cheered, but Connor couldn't place who. "Decreed by the highest officials in the Capitol... each district is required to offer up a young man and a young woman to fight in our steed. Here by my side are two bowls- one filled with names of the young ladies in the district between the ages of twelve to eighteen... and same for my left, where it's filled to the brim with males."

" _Get on with it_." Connor thought, soporifically.

His prayers were answered with resounding speed, as Tiana didn't speak a word before diving in the girls bowl and snagging up a piece of paper, crumbled in all four corners. Whoever filled the bowls did a terrible job. Connor could tell that from a mile away. The mayor ripped the slip of paper open, and then clear as day, read the name of... "Luna Capricorn!"

From the crowd, although he couldn't see where, a girl emerged, making Cranston's outburst seem like child's play. He saw a flash of striking blonde hair, piercing emerald eyes, a quaint figure. Said girl, which was Miss Capricorn... calling her a wreck didn't suffice. She was laughing hysterically, while crying, and then breaking out into screams before resuming the maniacal state of her previous actions. Connor wanted to go up and hug her. Denial at its finest.

Tiana gave Luna a distant look, as if she was diseased. Connor stared down Gregory, the two Torye brothers daring each other to make a face as the mayor returned to the microphone, slip in hand, tearing off the seal. His heartbeat slammed a million miles a minute, when he heard something rather... confusing. His body didn't know how to react. "Connor Torye!" Tiana announced.

Velma, Gregory, and Rhylla's eyes all snapped to him, and he stopped back. Connor twisted his lips into a grim smile. "Good riddance," he sneered.

The crowd parted for him, and he tried to ignore Luna's strained screams and hyena-like laughter. He gotten a double edged sword. That break he needed, he got it. He finally got it. Problem is, he was going into the arena.

Connor breathed heavily, cracking his neck, rolling his shoulders back. All he could hope for was if his thoughts, words, and actions could speak for themselves and not the blade he'd be holding in his hand days later.

Only time could tell.

* * *

 **And that is it folks! District 6 is squared away and complete. How did Connor and Luna stack up to the ones we've seen so far? First impressions and predictions? Sound off below in the reviews, you know I would love even a basic opinion on something, _anything_ with the story will do. I just randomized the numbers, and got 10 again, which I've already done, so I randomized it again- and we've got District 7! Wooh, new pair! Thank you all for reading, and I'll see you guys sometime this weekend with Chapter 6: Sap Sips Away At the Soul. I hope you guys liked this chapter, and thanks for being amazing submitters etc... Love you all! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	8. Chapter 6: Sap Sips Away At the Soul

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a new chapter of Death Under the Sky; #7: Sap Sips Away At the Soul. We are now at the District 7 reaping, woot woot! Surprisingly, the randomizer went** ** _right_** **in order, which I've never seen before. I'll be more than surprised if it goes to District 8 next. That'll be a big one, lol. So, *ahem* today, we have two lovely tributes, a Luka Tayviel submitted by the user who changes her name all the damn time (once it was Lady Ars, then ExodiusLK, and now it is Maelstrom Tempest). And, also the female tribute is Fawn Maples, by SatanicGeminiAndAngelicLeo. Yeah. Tis be a long one. I'm super excited for this chapter and district, originally Luka was for a whole different district, but moving around gave me a good place to work with. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

 **Luka Tayviel: District 7 Male P.O.V ( _15_ )**

* * *

Out of all the insults the world had ever told him, a loser was not one of them. He had been called many things- crybaby, gay, stupid, queer and the list went on and on. Not that he minded that attention. Negative attention _was_ still a form of it nonetheless. With his basic intelligence, which by Capitol definition was a middle school mind and having some tactical sense. He liked that.

At a medium height of 5'8, Luka stood impressively tall for his young age and down toned muscular size. His curly hair, a shade a tad bit darker than that of milk chocolate, spun up and about like a whizzing tornado that often devastated the beautiful forests. His eyes were of a swarthy steel grey, like hawks in a thunderstorm that flew at the speed of sound. Unlike many of the teens his age in District 7, he didn't have the gorgeous blue or green eyes like normal. That's because his eyes were genetically altered by the Capitol when he was six, a trait he held dear to his heart for as long as he could remember.

Back before the Capitol really was an asshole, as if an entire place could don a human trait and everyone could be stereotyped and type casted, was when he visited. Before the Dark Days hit, and the iodine plumes of smoke rose from every crevice in Panem. When the mouth bit the hand that fed them. When he watched his family get torn apart by two sides- radical District lovers, and those who supported the Capitol. Typical of the districts; it was always them who had the schism that seemed like a bullet to the heart. He snorted to himself, rolling up his sleeves of his dress shirt. " _All of us are the same. Donning our white caps of peace, we go into the woods to murder those who dare think otherwise. Such idiots..._ "

His family was one out of three to ever actually visit the Capitol. To this day, he still can recall all he saw. Towering buildings larger than the biggest tree in Seven, with stainless glass windows that looked like rippling pools of water. The vibrant colors dancing in the main square of the Capitol- all the fiery cardinals, violent amaranthines, calm ceruleans, dazzling halcyons, jazzy emeralds... his eyes had never been exposed to such a radiant burst of the spectrum. He wanted to stay there forever, his six year old self and absorb it all. The hair styles, the smells, the technology... and the food. Luka lavished after life with such frivolity. He yearned it, feel it scratch after his heart, beckon and moan his name. That was where the negative attention was garnered, where everyone thought he was a Capitol freak who went into the 'promise land', the one speculated about in some monotheistic crazy faith... and came out a changed man, for the worse.

"Let them think whatever they want. Won't change a damn thing. I got to see our eventual paradise. Those who play and win these games can... they can get there." Luka said aloud, not caring if anyone heard him or not.

He breathed, looking in the mirror, observing himself. He wasn't one for narcissism, didn't think it boded well for those who were so absorbed in themselves that when the rude awakening happened, it killed them. People spoke of such things in the higher class districts, like One and Two. Those were the freaks of his kind. Look at them. Point all your fingers towards _them_.

The house was quiet. Silent. He liked silence. In District 7, there was too much laborious noise. Axes chopping away at lumbering trees, the oaks full of grandiose toppling to the sodded dirt, all the swearing and rough housing, the smog of trucks carrying away the wood... it was a nasty place to be. But, here, Luka found home. In the midst of a bone bleached sky blue sky, olive studded leaves flocked around me. He felt like a king, wrapped in an verdant cloak, wielding his impervious axe blade that killed many of those cast before him. " _Hah,_ " he thought darkly. " _My fantasies get better every day_."

His father was working. Muscle of the house, muscle out in the work force. It meant he wouldn't be there for the reaping. Instead, the day was filled with sticky hours covered in slick sweat, moving his arms back and forth in a monotonous manner, never ceasing. If Luka was to be shipped off, the goodbye and love you not said in the early hours of the morning would go unsaid. Luka shuddered. These were not the thoughts he should be thinking at this time. His mother was still in bed. Classic. Like usual.

He rolled his eyes. "When you're the only one working away at a stable life... it makes everything else seem unnecessary. To stand in luxury, not giving a care. I want that one day."

Luka knew what working consisted of. Grueling, backbreaking hours to get little in return. If the work ceased, so do the nation, as it is what every beating heart needs to function. Cut out any of the sources and the path to functionality ceases. Same in a human body. Take out the brain? Body is dead. Heart? Same result. District 2 and 7 were needed. They provided the materials made to built the world around them. Should their work halt...

He shook his head violently back and forth. " _Back to these thoughts. That is one of a rebel. We cannot act this way. I must not act this way!_ "

Often times, Luka felt as if there was two parts to him. The good, the boy who followed the rules regardless of intent, those who ratted out all the wrongdoers. A Mr. goody two-shoes. He despised people who did that, yet time and time again he _was_ one of those people. Then you had the ugly, the bad didn't exist. His rage induced fits when things turned sour, and there was no way out of it... or when he failed something so simple a toddler could do it, or a blind man. There weren't many expectations set in his house. Get good grades. Become a lumberjack. They seemed pretty self explanatory.

Now? He's thinking of overthrowing the Capitol by staging revolts in his district... to cease the blood to the heart. Cause it to explode, covering the states in a drowning sea of crimson, choked with salt of all the bitter hate towards the Capitol. To stand on the Justice Building stage and send a bullet straight into the head of the mayor. To ride into his favorite place on the planet, which was the forests outlying home, and to carve all who controlled the workplace into trees of their own. Savage. Calculating.

Luka blinked. "Get it out of your head. You can do this, if nothing else. Survive your crippling disease. Survive it!" he growled to himself, unbuttoning his shirt and ripping it off his body, throwing it to the ground with the force of a gun.

He ran a hand through his hair. He knew what was wrong. Luka, like normal, forgot his medication. " _This is... the seventh time this month? New record_."

Despite his past history, it still came out as a surprise to those who didn't know... Luka Tayviel was bipolar. Diagnosed and all, he had the full package. At the age of fifteen, he exhibited perfect traits of this. His heart was in the right place, he just thought and acted differently from that. He wished to stop it, to cease the aching pain that came from it. He loved this life! He just hated that about him. Everyone had something about them that they didn't like... right? This happened to be it!

The tears came, quicker than the last. Crying burned, he very seldom did it. It was as if he was a dam that cracked and broke, to only be repaired in seconds later. Fissures were rare. His emotion was rare. Happiness, anger, confusion... he performed those without much help. Sadness? Arduous, and was what often broke him. Crystalline drops hailed from his cheeks, and given the hot weather outside in the muggy air, his release was necessary. He sank to the floor, sobbing.

"Out! Get out! Never come back," he croaked. He began hitting his head, once with a light tap, the second with a punch. "Out. Out. Out. Out. NOW!" he repeated, before unleashing a scream.

During all of this, his mother still did not rise from her bed. Snoring to the world, half dead, asleep. He wanted to sleep. Let his body cool, let the warm blood stop sizzling. His eyes had x-ray vision, he swore. Or lasers. The possibilities were endless with him!

All of a sudden, Luka began to laugh. It stirred in him low, then came out like a harsh bark. Raucous noise filled his house, and his stomach ache, griping and groaning for a chance to release. He wouldn't give his body relief that easy. Now the tears turned from sour to necessary, he hurt so much he cried. His changes were nocturnal, night and day they flickered on and off. The pain now was necessary. It felt... good. Out of all the adjectives he could possibly think of, that was the one he settled for.

His mind left the sobbing and the troubling thoughts of self struggle, and the manical laughter state which he had no idea where it came from. Then again, he was bipolar. One idea stood out in bright neon lights. _Reaping_. Luka sat straight up, head thumping against his mirror in his bedroom. The Hunger Games. The thing where people could die. What was about to happen in twenty minutes. Those Hunger Games. His possible death. His possible victory into the life he always wanted.

Was he afraid of death? Certainly. After seeing Birch Lido and Rose Blersa take their penultimate ends in the arena last year by fault of themselves, it shocked him even further to learn that could _be_ him later on in life. Luka saw the way the games changed two people he knew fairly well. They all attended the same school, took the same trainee program in the forests after hours in case they themselves grew up to be axe wielding maniacs... to see two dutiful, stoic people lose their minds scared him. He didn't want to turn into that.

His bipolarity would be an asset. He concluded on that years ago, if ever put in a situation that required drastic decisions to be made. His angriness could result in disastrous results. Despite knowing he wasn't made for the axe field in Seven, he did have a good throwing arm, his precision was accurate. He took to a more domestic side of life, learning his passion for cooking was tenfold over one for lumber production. Luka could make some devilish scrambled eggs, eggs taken from District 10, basil leaves from 11. He'd burn people to death with fires.

He laughed to himself. " _Burning people to death. That must be a new one... huh..._ "

The constant time spent in the kitchen meant he worked with knives day in and day out. He was no stranger to the steel blade, often seeing his grotesque reflection staring back at him. Those thoughts ate away at his brain while he cut, chopped, and stirred concoctions. Killing couldn't be that much harder, could it? Stab here, mutilate there. Cut off four inches of flesh and burn away all the fat... it'd be like cutting up a chicken... except the chicken could speak. If he thought about it like that, then there wouldn't be a problem.

"The arena is one large kitchen waiting for me to break into it." Luka concluded happily, totally not fantasizing about ways to chop up his enemies.

His ideas of killing took him to a different thought. In his family of three, he was the only child. What if he wasn't? If he had a sibling... would everything change? "Probably not..." he snorted, rolling his eyes. Silly for him to even think such a stupid question like that. His mother would still be a lazy slug, his dad would work from nine to midnight constantly, and the day would stay the same. Only difference is that there'd be a second Luka Tayviel in the world, one probably twenty times better than the first.

Luka always longed to have a younger sibling, but found later on when he turned thirteen and he was sat down to have... the _talk_ , his mother and father couldn't have children anymore. Neutralized. Such an interesting word. It meant to be ceased, that there were no longer any sides, everything stopped. He had screamed at them for hours. Why did they have to have the stupid process? Why couldn't they just make a kid once more and let him be happy for once? All the anger surmounted, and on that day he had nearly cut off his dad's ring finger with a kitchen knife he used to cut up meat with. Then, to storm out of the house, Luka promptly chucked the knife into the seams of the wall next to the sink. His parents were speechless, and the bipolarity came out once more.

He glanced at the clock up on the wall of the kitchen. The time read 11:55. The reaping was going to start at noon! Luka sat up, frightened. He was going to be late if he didn't get his ass up and ready. Luka threw on his leather jacket hanging onto the chair at the table where he usually sat. The smell of pine comforted him, and his lace ups by the door were thrown on in a flash. He didn't bother saying goodbye to his mother. She'd know where he was eventually, if not dead.

"She probably wouldn't even notice..." Luka whispered quietly.

As he exited the house to head for the square, he knew _exactly_ why he was angry at his mother and father for not having kids. It meant there was a greater chance for him to be picked into the Hunger Games and not his sibling. His odds were worsened now at this proclamation.

" _If I am doomed to die today... it is all their fault. Them and their neutering._ " he thought bitterly.

Luka strode out into the sunlit horizon, ready to accept whatever fate was going to throw out at him in the next fifteen minutes.

* * *

 **Fawn Maples: District 7 Female P.O.V ( _17_ )**

* * *

"Mellie! Dammit! How many times do I have to tell you, stop shittin' all over the house. We designated a spot for that, and you keep on violating it. What is wrong with you?" screamed Fawn Maples, a seventeen year old girl who knew nothing better to do with her time than to yell at her pets. The German Shepard, named Mellie by Fawn's parents, simply cocked her head to one side, drool dripping from her tongue onto the dusty floor of the single story, mix of wood and concrete block Fawn called home.

She shook her head in dismay. "Unbelievable... unbelievable. You stupid f'n dog. Look at wha' you've done here." A long, slender, finger was then pointed to the decent sized mess the dog had created in the living room, on the walkway from the bathroom to the living room. If someone wasn't careful, they'd go stepping in it and stink up the whole damn house.

Fawn got on her hands and knees, and knowing that the time to get something to clean it up would be too tolling, picked the poop with her fingers. "I am about to get my life tried for stupid reasons and I'm spending my perhaps last half an hour of solace by picking up dog crap. Disgusting." She grimaced, taking the feces and chucking it outside, through the open window.

It was an understatement to say she hated picking up after people's sloppy seconds. She loathed it. Fawn had way better ways to spend her time, such as hacking away at more trees out in the forest on the outskirts of time, or watching her sister Jackie, who at the age of five could hardly even speak correctly without saying a cussword she learned from her lovely dad.

Like a majority of District 7, if you were a 'lumberjack' so to speak, you made minimal money. Average income on both of her parents' paychecks at the end of the week ended in a zero, and began with a four. Forty dollars between two working parents. The price of living such a shabby life was low, and Fawn learned to deal with it. She couldn't stand those, in any district, who praised the Capitol. Those who did had kaleidoscope vision, where they only saw a tad bit of the big picture, and only saw what _they_ wanted to see, no one else's perspective.

A prime example was the Tayviel's. She never spoke to them, but knew enough about them that they sucked off the imaginary body parts of the Capitol for a living, mesmerized by the grandeur once seen in its prime, and not the bloodthirsty demons who made it run. Monsters with charcoal black faces, talons and claws that'd tear off the face of a human being, shades of fur and hair that were unnatural, making them look more of a circus freak than mortal. The idiot boy Luka was the worst, spreading a gospel or some banal bullshit that didn't exist- the Capitol was _truly_ great.

"The kid is lost. Poor soul. Kid is needin' help, and no one can give it to him." Fawn tapped her fingers on the windowsill, the same place where she threw out the dog's excrement. Mellie wasn't even theirs, by that she meant her own. It was a stray that often came by because it didn't seem as rundown as a few of the other houses on the same street. What she could rightfully claim as her own was her parents, and her younger sister.

Mother was a pristine and beautiful lady of 36, a Ivy Maples stuck in a deadbeat job who couldn't move up the ranks. Her beauty would allow a rise or two, but the skillset didn't. Ivy was not a lumberjack, but a processer. Good with numbers. Kept tallies of the total production rates, could figure all of the math in her head in a second, but couldn't lift an axe to save her damn life. " _My mother is going to have to learn it. It is an essential part of life. If you are born in District 7, then you swing an axe. You. Swing. An. Axe._ " Fawn deduced silently. Despite the fact Ivy wasn't made to be a heavy lifter of the group, she still exuded skills like no other. From Ivy, Fawn got her love for family and ones who were helpless, and the idea that if you worked hard enough, you could get somewhere, even if it wasn't the intended destination from the very beginning. Life wasn't like that.

From father, a strong and loving Mason Maples, he was out of place in the family. Auburn hair ran in the family, strong and vibrant as the embers and wisps of an open flame, while his was onyx black as the soil the trees stood in. Sarcasm dripped off all of his words, one joke laid on top of another. _How long did it take the chicken to cross the road? If David lost his ID, is now just Dav? If you throw a cat out of a window, it is considered kitty litter?_ Fawn cracked a smile. Sometimes his euphemisms and cracks could be uplifting in dire times. What she took away from the patriarch of the Maples family was that you had to have fun whilst getting the job done. All seriousness and no play? Not a happy person. All play and no seriousness? Then the person was foolish and needed to learn some common sense.

Jackie Maples rounded out the true family, not the extended family. Fawn meant the dog in that regard. At the age of five, the last member, the newly born... the girl was a ray of sunshine. Exuberant, always happy, never had a carefree problem in the world. Although her body weight leaned towards the heavier side of the scale for her age, it made everything triple the happiness as weight wasn't a problem for her age. Her heart was set on two things. Joy and her family. Fawn learned the importance of love from her. Jackie was one of the greatest things to happen in her life... to be reminded of youth, and the fun you could always return to.

That made up the Maples family in a nutshell. Hard working, loving, and funny. Then you had Fawn.

From a very young age, people noted her build. Inspired by the muscle built by Mason as a kid, she wanted to be like that, to resemble her father. He was, after all, her biggest role model. Took up an axe by age six, and became a natural by only eleven. Sometimes her load of lumber per log tripled that of Mason, who in Seven, could be considered the best in the business. Her ability was never noticed, and she still sat there in a condensed work schedule as school still needed to be finished out before becoming a full-fledged working class citizen of Panem. A woman wasn't supposed to be this 'good' in the field. That irritated Fawn beyond her wildest dreams.

This passion came out of that- a passion to make things right, equal opportunity. What Panem originally been based on. All of that discarded for a lack of attention. She was tall, 5'10 for a girl... seldom seen anywhere that didn't have growth hormone or some stupid drug to enhance that trait. Fawn had an athletic build, from the desire to consistently get better at her trade, there was always a higher rung to climb, the ladder never ceased. Her frame was slim, due to the little money income meaning less food, but that was replaced by bulk muscle, where she was often mistaken for a guy. Mason still couldn't believe a guy had asked her out to the 8th grade formal on a mistake of gender identity.

The covering of the shade from the trees made her skin a pallid corpse white- sunlight... pah, what was that? She had no idea. "On a day like reapin' day... only time I see anythin' close to sunligh'. Good for my soul. Skin. Heart. Character." Fawn couldn't wait to feel the warmth tickle her skin, to have sunbeams gently play and dance up and down her arm. A long time ago, before the Dark Days... before the bombings and the smog, Fawn remembered the true beauty of the sun. Now it seemed artificial.

What also accelerated her boy-like characteristics was a lack of prominent freckles on her face, hence the less exposure to sunlight that most. She had short, low cut fiery cardinal hair mixed in with strands of mahogany that stopped at her shoulders, accompanied by a scowl. What deterred from the peeved state of her face were two diamond eyes, soft and delicate. One side represented a sharp thorn, the other a gentle blanket. Spurred by her lack of noticeability in the lumber business, she took on a motherly figure to those who felt as if they were nothing- boys _and_ girls alike. She wasn't sexist.

When everyone that wasn't young got the unkindness of her soul, children saw the hearth and warmth that came from beneath her cold exterior. Those who wronged her had to keep looking over their six, as she'd be there with a frigid bucket of revenge just waiting to be dumped. Her favorite saying? Revenge is best served cold. By her bedside, Fawn kept a quote, unquote "shit" list. This list was a collection of names, people who she just _had_ to get back at. She wouldn't feel content any other way.

Her mind knew when noon hit. Reaping day began. Fawn hated being left alone at the house, Ivy and Mason working, Jackie down at a friend's house being taken care of by a family friend. She'd be facing the cruelty of Cranston's choosing's alone. She shuddered. "I suggest we get this over with, shall we?" she muttered, knowing that the answer would be a resounding _YES!_ She hated herself sometimes.

Fawn kicked at a pebble on the side of the dirt sodded path that led from her house to the town square. Unlike most districts, the poorer sections of Seven were closer to the town square as the forests were closest to the Justice Building as well- the workers, who were often on call a lot needed a quick and efficient way to work so production could be around the clock. Those who were richer were farther out, and Fawn could only imagine what it looked like out there.

The square was already filled with people. Kids ranging from the ages of twelve to eighteen, boys and girls alike... all looking up at that stage with fear in their eyes, nails being chewed, boisterous fake laughter being released, hair being twirled... each person had a mechanism or two to keep their minds off a possible impending doom. Fawn snorted. "I've been through enoug' to know... throw whatever you want at me Capitol. I can handle it. I dare you to try me."

After waiting in line for the preliminary blood drawing, which she had been through multiple times to make sure, in the winter months that her hands were contaminated to infect the axes, the infliction caused her little pain or any sign of emotion. Fawn tried holding in the chuckles when the wealthier kids would leap in the air, scream, try to run away, or all three.

The way the reaping worked was that there was fourteen sections, split down the middle. In the front of the stage were the boys and girls aged twelve to fourteen. In the middle, fifteen and sixteen year olds clumped in some awkward group that tried to reassure each other everything was alright. In the back, where Fawn stood, was the seventeen and eighteen year olds.

"We all look so dead..." she whispered aloud, noticing the hollowed stares and ghastly white lips.

Noon came, sun high in the sky. The doors to the Justice Building opened, and Fawn's heart skipped a beat. " _Mom_ _?_ " she yelled incredulously.

In a tumultuous turn of events, her mother, Ivy Maples stood on the Justice Building stage, lonesome and tired. Her striking auburn hair blew in the wind, a simple white dress tacked to her body. As Fawn could only stand in a form of shell shocked stasis, her mother tapped at the microphone on the stage. "Good afternoon District 7. I am Ivy Maples, a simple mother of two. I was supposed to be out in the forest today with my husband like normal on any other day, but in District 6, they just had their reaping and Cranston Ervack, the victor of the 1st Hunger Games... he had a meltdown. Our mayor was gracious enough to give the poor boy a break, but he needed a replacement. Our mayor knows I'm good with numbers, and a spokesperson in my spare time... so I graciously volunteered."

" _Mother... what are you doing to yourself up there?_ " Fawn wanted to curl up into a ball.

Ivy tried searching the crowd for her daughter, but couldn't find her in the mix of blonde and fiery red hair that blended into one shade that was futile to decipher out of. "We've been through this process together before... as instructed by our mayor. Here on stage is two bowls, filled with names of girls and boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen. I am to pick one name from each bowl, and these kids are required to come on the stage and be our representatives in the 2nd annual Hunger Games."

" _You can still back out of this... mother, please._ "

The newly appointed escort of District 7 reached into the girls bowl on the right side of the stage first, which was customary. Ivy didn't look at the numerous pallid folds of paper, digging for roughly ten seconds for pulling out a strand that seemed to be absolutely normal. Unfolding the seal, she stared back at the black ink typed in the center of the slip. Fawn raised an eyebrow, seeing her mother's... hesitance. Who could it have possibly been?

Ivy licked her lips, tears threatening to spill. "Our female tribute for District 7 shall be... Fawn Maples."

Time slowed then and there. All the anger, the furious moments spent with a shitting dog, and a lack of attention in a field she was good at, and now _this_... Fawn broke. A mother having to draw the daughter forth to her death. What a reunion.

She inched up slow, getting pushed along, hurtful whispers chipping away. _Keep the smile. Don't you dare drop it. Keep it. Keep it, dammit!_ Fawn, momentarily forgot how to stand, how to even move. Was she really about to do this? Indeed... indeed. Fawn Maples took a spot next to her mother, hand instinctively grabbing each other. "And- and now for the male representative..." Ivy spoke slowly, each breath, each _syllable_ poisonous to her heart.

Fawn decided to break customs and reached into the bowl herself, grabbing the slip. Her eyebrows lifted up at a name she saw bleeding through the slip. Why not let the little bugger suffer if she had to? Make him recognize his faulty ways. Make him see the truth, that District 7 was his home. Not the bleeding, fake, egotistical warped dimension of the Capitol. Fawn Maples did something she never thought she would do. Sabotage.

The slip that had _Luka Tayviel_ written in lovely dark lines. Ivy nodded in understanding, although she couldn't read the name. Taking the slip from her daughter's hand, out it came. "Luka Tayviel."

Fawn's eyes seized him immediately, from the fifteen year-old section. Her saddening face turned into a smile, one cold and evil smirk. " _This shall be fun... a slight turn of events. Revenge is best served cold, isn't it not?_ "

* * *

 **Well... talk about a turn around way to have a reaping. Oh my god, imagine the real life pain of having to draw your loved one to their death. That pain must be unimaginable. But... yeah, there was the District 7 reaping! We have Luka Tayviel and Fawn Maples added to our cast of characters, and originally, poor Luka was going to volunteer but I saw no reason for it on a second try. Dipping back into the random number generator, I've randomized District 12! Normally they are the very last pair of characters we see in the SYOT's, but now I think they are going sixth (?). Don't quote me on that one, haha. Please review, let me know what you thought of the chapter! A few of these districts have been harder than others only because I really want to draw out as much character as possible that I can between the reapings without making them too utterly dull. I am hoping to update once again next week, with #7: Till Your Lungs Dye Black... I love you all so much, and thank you for reading! See you guys soon! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	9. Chapter 7: Till Your Lungs Dye Black

**Hey everybody, Paradigm of Writing here with the 7th chapter of Death Under the Sky, our District 12 reaping, Till Your Lungs Dye Black. My chapters for awhile may be getting shorter, somewhere around 3k instead of 5k, and I hope that is okay with you. School has gotten really busy, and I also have decided to put on my calendar a fanfiction schedule blocked out to April 29th from today, and between the total of nine stories I'll have to** ** _try_** **and get out 55 updates. May not happen, and probably won't happen, but a boy can dream right? I'm even sacrificing my favorite TV show right now for this chapter, but it may not be too long like I'd like it to be unless I can be speed type like a madman which I very might be able to do. Let's hope, right? *fingers crossed* Today, you shall see Sora Kurenai by snow x. fairy, and Grayson Lilanic by SamDeanAndCas. Now, we have a chapter to read, don't we? Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Sora Kurenai: District 12 Female P.O.V ( _14_ )**

* * *

A thin white line scratched itself onto a concrete wall, a sharp shard of pottery making another tally mark next to eight hundred others in the same exact way. Fourteen year-old Sora Kurenai sighed, realizing that the pallid markings were all the same to her. Eight hundred days of pitiful loneliness, where the only company she got was from the bitter old bat at the front who ran the _Orphanage of the Mining Who Cannot Bear A Family._ With a shitty title like that, anything and everything was possible. Actually... absolutely not.

"Dropped me off, just for a few days they said..." Sora murmured to herself, discarding the piece of pottery, not bothering to see where it landed. "Instead they go die in combat to defeat the Capitol scum, leaving me here in washed up clothes, cardboard boxes, cold oatmeal... and a matron who deserves to be shoved into the worst crevice of hell. Thanks parents!" For emphasis, she flipped off the ceiling, knowing that somewhere up in the sky, someone would care.

Today was reaping day. The Hunger Games didn't seem to be a one time type of ordeal, something which sent cold shivers up the best spines of District 12's finest. Those lucky enough to buy out the day were saved, them and their children. However, as many people in Twelve were hit the hardest by the depression loomed on by the losing of the Dark Days rebellion, being forced to go was the latter option. Sora had to go. Perhaps it'd be even a better time there then in the cramped orphanage which smelled like a horse's ass. Or worse. Could there be worse? Possibly. Sora didn't wish to meet whatever _it_ could be.

She leaned back to observe her work, as the tally marks of the days left alone by the ones who birthed her made a mural. A gigantic F U spelled out in slate lines from shards of pottery, chalk, blades etc... Her musings were getting better and better by the second. How she saw it, was that someone would see it when they walked in, obviously knowing it was about her parents, the poor little orphan left all alone to die of starvation and a single bullet to the brain. She didn't want to believe it, but rumor had it in the orphanage that once you turned eighteen and didn't have a job lined up, or parents to take you home, the matron... or _Miss Lace_ would take you out back and fire some calibrated pistol into your fine skull. Sora preferred to have a weapon with her if that day was to come. She'd give a good stab to their tormentor and free the orphanage once and for all from the beast's cruelty.

Her mind went back to the reaping. Before she lost her family, the only people who made her even something to talk about, she had gotten some one-on-one with her father, a man who's name she had long forgotten. All Sora could remember about him was that he had sandy brown hair, a light smile, and flickering emerald eyes that shone like specters. Her dad was a martial artist, but on the side had an expertise of blades. He taught her all he could about the sword, one of the most ancient weapons used in battle since history began being recorded. For the rebel militias that were too... poor to afford guns for all their fighters, weapons were made on site and given to those who could use them. Sora's father was a man like that. _Was_ , being the key answer.

Sora knew how her parents were killed. Father... a bullet to the back which severed his spine, then he lost his head next by a spike thrown from an upstairs balcony in the streets of the Capitol. Her mother contacted some disease. Pneumonia or something. One person told her it was a heart attack, another said her mother had contracted cancer of the ovaries. Sora didn't know. She didn't care. Her parents left her. To die.

"Perhaps I can get picked for these games and get picked. Save myself this eternal torment. Find people who care. A partner who'll understand me."

She hated to admit it to anyone who asked, but watching the Games last year and seeing the connection formed by Mako Narcis and Nydia Jones... it made her heart yearn for such affection. For a guy to come bustling in with a load of cash, sweep her off of her feet, kiss her with the force of a Mach truck... and take her away to a castle that overlooked an ocean, with the sun sinking below the skyline afterwards. Whenever those thoughts even glanced across, Sora grinned to herself like a madman, shaking in dissent as hard as she could. A fantasy would remain that forever. A fantasy.

Sora's room couldn't even be called that. A closet was better fitting. A low cut door stood as the entrance, which she had to crawl through every morning to get downstairs where breakfast would be served, in cold clattered bowls that were chipped and stained, to have pallid mush that smelled like human feces plopped in. To take a bite and have bile rise so quickly, you'd think it was there the entire time. Sometimes she had a bed, sometimes she did not. To conserve the little heat installed in the orphanage, the windows were kept open. A little- pah, who was she kidding, a breeze that came from hurricanes would often come in and take the light blankets off of her body and throw them to the garbage disposal. Now all Sora had was her arms to keep her warm, and she rubbed and burned her skin as hard as she could, the arms being sticks of wood that are rubbed together to light a fire.

Whenever her 'bed' disappeared, a cardboard box got put in its place. A rusty leather color, this new home fell apart every other hour, needing silver masking tape to shut it all down to then have it fall apart in her arms again. Throughout all this, Sora never cried. Tears were shed on occasion, like when her birthday passed and the only gift she was given was a rock found on the front doorstep of the orphanage and had been kicked in when the matron came in a rush. Besides the moments when it really dug into her skin, which was seldom, tears never were shed. She stood stoic, presumably sour faced, and ready to punch whomever made a wrong move.

Friends... they didn't exist. She had one, a long time ago. When she was first put into the program. His name was common and stupid. Billy. Very basic for someone of District 12. So basic it made her head spin. What stupid parents named their child that? They did, apparently. Billy had been sixteen at the time, seventeen when he left while she was only twelve, new to the world of disappointment and failure. Missed expectations were common, those couldn't be misplaced. He had been short for his age, she easily toppled him with her stagnant height of 5'5 for a girl at such a young age. He had short blonde hair that stopped halfway at his neck, and cold cut diamond eyes that chilled her wherever they followed. He seemed mean, but on the inside he was a gigantic teddy bear you could hug over and over again.

Sora became the opposite. From Billy, she learned how to not be friendly. How to sneer at everyone who came close, hiss at those who tried to touch her. Never say please. Never say thank you. Always disrespect the authority who didn't give it to her. Only in the orphanage was she like this, though. Sora knew manners, chose to not exhibit them in a place where manners didn't exist. Whenever she had the ability to go into the Seam, or the square, she'd smile and be somewhat light. She didn't go rushing up to people and shake their hands every ten seconds either, but enough to make people around her comfortable instead of choosing to try out that new pickaxe maneuver they learned in the mines or something. If anyone did try to hurt her, she could fight back. A small rod, which she dismantled from the ventilation system in her 'room' stood in as a sword, which she once again got from her father's teaching. Two clubs to the back of the head and you were down for the count.

She smiled to herself, mind reopening the moment where the creepiest man in all of Twelve, a loner in the Seam nicknamed the Closet Creeper... this bastard tried taking her away from the orphanage without consent. Sora had leaped out of his grasp, ran upstairs for the rod, and beat the _living shit_ out of him. From that point forward, absolutely no one in her new residency gave a word of bad mouth, and it spread throughout the Seam that some weakling, freakishly tall thirteen year-old knocked Closet Creeper upside his head.

There was a rough knock at her door, causing Sora to whip around, hand instinctively going for the rod. "What?" she hissed.

"It's nearly three," replied the voice of an orphanage worker, someone who couldn't have been older than twenty by the inflection. "The reaping in the square will start soon and since you can walk, it is requested those children who can make it have to attend. Terribly sorry if I woke you. Don't get the rod out, please. My scar _still_ hasn't healed, and you hit me over a month ago!"

Her anxiety calmed down to a minimal level and she dropped the rod. The worker on the other side jumped, flinching like crazy by the way the shadows under the door flickered and moved. So it was reaping time already? Sora cracked her neck, liking the lax feeling in her joins. " _Let's get this over with, shall we?_ "

* * *

 **Grayson Lilanic: District 12 Male P.O.V ( _16_ )**

* * *

Of all the days to go hunting, his sister couldn't have picked a worse day. In less than twenty minutes, their only escape route back into the real world would be crawling with peacekeepers, people who'd search the woods for anyone who dared miss out on the reaping. Grayson Lilanic kept this growing worry to himself as he eyed a sparrow sitting on a nearby branch in the middle of the forest outside District 12. He quietly reached for the slingshot behind his back, pulling out a pebble from a stash kept in a small pouch on the ground. Loading the projectile, a resounding _THWACK_ came from the bird as the stone connected with the eye, knocking it to the mossy Earth below.

"Nice shot!" complemented Grayson's sister, Hilden, who had turned eighteen a week before. She jogged up to him, patting her brother on the back with a hearty clap.

"Thanks. I didn't even hesitate this time." he nodded. Six birds in under fifteen minutes. Wasn't a bad record, if he had anything to compare it to.

"Hard to believe Nydia Jones used that same very slingshot you're holding," Hilden said, picking up the dead sparrow and dropping it into a basket weaved together by leaves, string and branches of an old oak out in the wood. "It's legendary."

"Well, she's dead," Grayson deadpanned. "Let's keep her name and privacy in secret please. Thanks. Greatly appreciated."

The Nydia Jones who Hilden had referenced was the same girl in the 1st Hunger Games, a year to the date. Partnered with Mako Narcis, they both represented a glimmering, shining hope for the District that they may have two winners out of the gate. The district to first surrender could point at all the others in the face and laugh. Till he went insane after his love was killed, but that's a different story.

Sounds of wildlife filled the forest, and Grayson's hunter eyes scanned the few trees and bushes creeping out in front of him, a roaring river gliding down below over the rocks. His eyebrows raised slightly when he saw the glimmering scales of a fish, a kind he had never seen before. He wiped his brow, which was slick with sweat while he observed the new catch of the day. The forest glowed a radiating verdant under the sun's casting rays, making the layer below very hot. On a day like this, a swim didn't seem so bad.

Grayson dropped the slingshot in favor for another weapon, one far deadlier and one that covered more range. The axe around his waist pulled freely from the belt that held it up, placed firmly and assuredly in his hands. He inched down slowly, slow so Hilden could get a gander shot of another sparrow a little higher up from his position. The roaring of the water matched the dull, yet roaring thump of his heartbeat. The chilling crystalline water flowed over his feet, turning his bones cold to the core. Only movement would restore them. Grayson eyed the fish in particular, the one with a scaled hide that rivaled the jewels of Arabia, before leaping up to slam his axe straight into the organism's neck.

Blood spewed everywhere, a particular glob landing straight in his hair. He didn't mind that, removing the blade with a sickening _swish._ The water turned a brackish pink, a color that Grayson had never seen in his lifetime. Wasn't blood a putrid crimson color? Why did this fish bleed a bubblegum taint... He racked his brain for a possible answer. There was no fish like the one he just killed on record in the library back by the square, and a majority of his prior knowledge resulted from the books that came on District 12 wildlife. There could be only one answer.

"Hey, Hilden! I think I just killed a mutt." Grayson called up to his sister excitedly, stomping in the river.

His sister whipped around, scarlet hair shining in the sun. "You killed a _what_ _?"_ She had only heard the word 'mutt' a few seldom times in her life, and not once did it come from her brother.

"Yeah," he repeated. "A fish that bleeds a rosy pink! We've _never_ seen that before. Has to be one a kind. Special or something."

Grayson puffed up his chest proudly. He could take claim to having killed a mutation from the Capitol and come out alive. There was also a few other things the Lilanic boy could have titles to, as well. Being one of the most attractive Seam males at school was a plus. With shaggy dark blonde hair, and steely blue eyes that almost came across as grey, added to a tan body and a crooked smirk, Grayson Lilanic could be quite the looker. Despite this, he never found love. Mainly because there was zero interest around him in school. All the girls focused on those who didn't dirty work, all the guys looking _for_ work, which ruined the ladies, put them at a setback.

Hilden, his sister, could not be attributed to the same characteristics as her brother. She had fiery red hair, which was a rarity beyond disbelief in Twelve, a horrible shade of suave brown for eyes, and to top it all off, a nose that looked like a damn hawk had bit it off. An attribution to her was that she had a wicked throwing arm. She joined Grayson by the river bank. "I'll have you know that your successful kill is currently floating downstream as we speak." She pointed behind him, stifling a giggle.

He turned, seeing the pink tide of blood, and the glimmering scales of the dead mutated fish in between it. "Ah, damn..." he cursed. "I guess there is always next time."

"We can come back after the reaping. Highly unlikely either you or I will be taking the stage, and Mom and Dad both work late. This thing shouldn't take longer than what... twenty minutes tops? We can return and leave at sundown. I'm sure the Hob will be crawling with people wanting to buy from his."

"You sure?"

"More than like 80% positive." Hilden cracked a smile.

"And when does the reaping start?" Grayson asked.

"Roughly three or so, which means..." his sister trailed off, looking up to try and figure out the time from the sun in the sky. "That it started five minutes ago." she said lamely.

"We're late?" His eyes bulged out of his sockets.

"If you want to call it that."

"Shit! We need to leave! We can just leave the game basket here and pick it up after sundown," he exclaimed, clambering out of the river with his feet stomping the ground like pistons, water flying everywhere. Grayson dropped his axe by the basket full of game, dispatching his slingshot down next to it as well. "Come on Hilden! We'll be late! Well... actually, we are late! Hurry!"

"You act as if we'll die." Hilden groaned, following after her brother.

"That very well may be the case."

Grayson didn't bother hearing a reply from his sister, flying through the thicket, ducking under branches, jumping over logs, getting slashed in the face by the occasional wild animal who leaped out after him. He ran, ran and ran. Grayson could also attribute to his name that he was a runner. Fastest boy in his grade, give or take depending on if he ran barefoot or in shoes. He could only hope and pray they hadn't dived too much into the reaping where he wasn't accounted for and punished. That was the last thing he needed on the sweltering summer day like this.

When District 12 had been built, there was a sparse woodland out on the outer banks of the ridge. The town square had been placed only a half mile away from the forest, making transit between luxury of the trees and the gloominess of the mines only a five minute run between the two. Had the square been anywhere else, the poor Lilanic boy could be praising his lucky stars to only give him Godspeed boosts of agility. He could hear Hilden's quickened pace behind him, as she was just as fast if not faster than her younger sibling.

The two skidded to a stop at the crest of a small hill, seeing that the reaping had been set up without them. The boys lined one side of the square, girls on the other. He paused to catch a breath. "Do you remember where we are supposed to stand?"

Hilden wheezed, giving him a finger to signal ' _give me a moment_ '. She straightened up. "Yeah. I am on the right side of the square if you're facing us from the stage, in the front where the eighteen year olds are. You're father back than I am, in the sixteen year-old male section. I believe that's what it was."

"Try and get there slowly please, without drawing attention of... _unwanted_." Grayson whispered, the two splitting apart.

The two Lilanic siblings trekked from the top of the hill to the bottom, being as sneaky as possible. The hunting of game helped this immensely. Hilden had crouched low, jumping every few steps like a bunny rabbit, almost comical when looked at a second glance. Grayson cursed as he missed the soft ledge of the ground by the ending of the hill, and instead bounced forward by five feet into the roped off sections for the boys and girls. He, luckily, however, had stopped smack dab in front of the sixteen year olds. Home never felt so close. He quietly slipped under the ropes, getting a few pointed glares from the youths his age, but none of them said anything.

Their eyes were directed to the stage, all attentively listening in and watching whomever was up there.

"Good afternoon to District 12. I hope you're day has been turning out decently well..." the voice was saying.

Grayson peered over a kid's shoulder to see a male he recognized as an ally of his old hunting 'partners'. The victor of the 1st Hunger Games, Cranston Ervack, stood on the Justice Building stage, hand gripping onto a microphone. Cranston's eyes were sagged low, and visible dark circles could be seen from a lack of sleep or the forthcoming of night terrors. The victor's hair was tidy and clean, glossing a slimy mahogany color from what seemed to be gallons and gallons of water poured atop his head to keep the mad hair in check. A slight stutter, but one that didn't truly affect his words nicked at his speech. Ervack didn't necessarily look all too good.

The Lilanic male put his hands on his hips. "Well, I'll be damned." he whispered. It was at that moment when his eyes flickered to the two ominous bowls filled with white papers on the sides of the victor. Each slip held some form of fancy black manuscript. The reaping was ready. Grayson swallowed a few ounces of his fear he didn't know he was holding.

"The bowls have been set," Cranston said assuredly, hands marking movements of the two bowls placed evidently on his side. "As accustomed in the rules given to you by your town mayor yesterday, I am to start with the young ladies of District 12 first." he recited. The victor felt his words slip off easily, but they stung like whips, each syllable hurt and was strange. He didn't believe his own mouth that spoke.

Grayson's worst fears couldn't have been materialized more than what was about to happen. He closed his eyes. "Anyone but... just not Hilden..." he whispered.

Cranston dug a clawed hand into the bowl, flicking upward one strand of paper that caught his eye. Back to the microphone, he read the name of... "Hilden Lilanic." Mother... in all of sweet Panem, this had to be a joke.

A person detached themselves from the crowd. _Hilden_. Her fiery hair snapped behind her, the stride quick, the strokes firm and strong. Grayson built up in his body something. Bravery he had never felt. Volunteering seemed essential. Hilden took a single step up towards Cranston's right side when a younger voice from the female section, all the way in the back by the fourteen year olds, called out. "I'll volunteer for her!"

Hilden's face relaxed, eagerly leaping off the stage and running back into her spot as someone replaced her. Grayson frowned. He had never seen this person before. Were they even human? Cranston had leaned in to ask the name of the girl who just volunteered, who breathlessly replied, "Sora Kurenai."

Grayson raised an eyebrow. Sora was tall, for being fourteen. She had edgy midnight hair that swooped to one side which was tucked carefully behind her ear, piercing azure eyes that exuded a strange sense of confidence. Whomever she was, this Sora Kurenai had to be stupid and out of her mind. Out of it completely.

Cranston had taken a male slip without anyone noticing, his hands moving so quickly at the paper. Memories of Mako and Nydia came flooding back, and the sweat beads dropped down, the breath quickened, the pulse beat faster. "I need a Mr. Grayson Lilanic up to the stage please." the victor read quickly, before furrowing his eyebrows together when he realized the name he had just spoken aloud.

It would require the most kind of voices to have gotten Grayson to move his feet then and there, in that single moment as his name was called. A hard shove came from behind, and the boy accelerated forward to the ground, a rowdy fifteen year-old seeing the prime opportunity to push the shell-shocked male upwards. Grayson glared at the impatient son of bitch before dusting himself off. "If only he had been reaped instead..." he murmured lowly.

He took his spot on Cranston's left, the victor leaning in to say a few more words. Grayson locked eyes with Hilden, who gave a moment's glance before breaking it, tears streaming down his eyes. Sora Kurenai stood right by him, quiet as a dormouse. He seized her wrist when an intense fever he didn't know lied under his skin, causing her to jump.

"What do you want?" she hissed.

"Why did you volunteer for my sister?" Grayson whispered.

"Because I had to get away from my hellhole," Sora answered back rudely, ripping her arm away from his grip. "I want a family. When I win, I'll come back to one. Fake or not."

Grayson stared at his newly made district partner, albeit through estranged relations. He set aside a few bitter feelings in his heart. In order to return to his sister, to the one who mattered most, he'd have to kill her. Even if meant he had to ruin Sora Kurenai's dream of a family.

No matter what it took.

He was a Lilanic. They showed signs of kinship above all else.

In the end he had to be declared the winner.

It was the Hunger Games, after all.

 _There_ was only a single victor.

Not three, not two.

One. Just one.

Grayson intended on it being him.

He expected it.

* * *

 **There we are you guys! Wooh! That's another chapter done in quick record time too. Started at 8:15, and here I am finishing it at 10:10. Man, happy to have it off my chest, update out of the way. Sorry that this chapter is a tad bit smaller than the other ones, but we should be back to normal soon. Doesn't mean I don't like these characters any less than the others- in fact Sora and Grayson are some of my favorites who have been submitted. So, next district shall be... District 5! Woot, going backwards now. And this marks 6 reaping chapters complete! The next reaping chapter should be up no later than January 29th, which is ten days from now. Mark my words everybody. Please review and let me know what you thought. Not bad for a quick update, right? I'll see you all soon with Chapter 8: The Atomic Number of Death, our District 5 reaping. Thanks so much for reading and I love you all! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	10. Chapter 8: The Atomic Number of Death

**Hey everyone! Paradigm of Writing here with the eighth chapter of Death Under the Sky, The Atomic Number of Death. We're so close to have reapings finished and complete which makes me happier than beyond words to express. Today we have the District 5 reaping, meeting our two new tributes Tycho Brunfields and Magenta Miranda, submitted by GryffindorOnFire and Primrose314. I'm sorry that it has been so long since I've updated this, as ten days truly is a long time to take for a story where I can write a majority of the chapters in a day, but like I always say, school has been kicking my ass good and clean. Enjoy the chapter! So happy to know we are almost out of the reapings, with only Districts 2, 3, 8, 9, and 11 left to do. Hope you like our new chapter~ The Atomic Number of Death.**

* * *

 **Tycho Brunfields: District 5 Male P.O.V ( _14_ )**

* * *

Tycho hated glasses. Well... in a backwards, introspective look, he loathed glasses on other people's faces. For him, his deep seeded disgust for the metallic frames lied within how his own pair looked absolutely ridiculous. Gigantic square frames that resembled moreso spectacles than simple glasses. The lenses clouded over at least fifteen times a day, and even then, when they were brand new and clean he hardly saw anything that wasn't smack dab in front of his face. "Despicable..." he sneered to himself, looking up under the gale of a tree hidden in the crook of the District 5 town square. "I always look idiotic. No wonder I can't play kickball."

In his world, the worst element to the whole thing was how he couldn't connect a kick to a rubber ball and run around the bases. There were plenty of other travesties in District 5 to complain about. Lack of money and food, a rundown job, family members who didn't know a four from a five, the Hunger Games... why the list went on and on. Tycho Brunfields narrowed all of it down to the glasses that sat on his nose. In all honesty, it should've been a blessing that his family could even afford the cheaply made frames which cost nearly quintuple the rent their run down shack in the slums cost. He hardly remembered what incident even led to causing his vision problems, but rumor had it that he had been run with a iron hot poker while working on the processing unit for a hydroelectric generator.

Like many kids his age, they helped once learning how to wire and function the systems that gave Panem its energy, partaking in the grueling work alongside their parents. He looked down mournfully at his hands, burned scars and ashy grey clumps of skin and hair meeting his slate steel and mahogany blend of color inside his pupil, which from an outsider point of view looked smaller and frightened far away. Tycho coughed, some ash clouds coming from deep within his chest.

At the age of twelve, he had been sent into a laboratory to help engineer a new product for Capitolites and their freaky fascination with skin. Mixing acids and poisons together, debasing them with some elements from the periodic table he still to this day couldn't spell, and a lovely microscope, he had created the next best thing since simple nose powder.

It failed horrendously. Perhaps horrendous was too soft of a word. Instead of applying color to the already pale complexion of the Capitol citizens, it turned their skin a musty dark, turgid olive color. Sickening to look at it, and due to the harsh mixings of poison and acid, _lethal_ , to the touch. There had been a slight accident where he had knocked his glasses off with an upward movement of his wrist, knocking over the solution to the floor, which plumed up into a toxic cloud. He consumed some of the powder, although it had been unknown at the time what the effects exactly were. President Ammadeus couldn't wash out the skin malfunction for nearly a week. His punishment became to be the most severe of them all, with the new Hunger Games looming up right on the entirety of Panem. In fact, in roughly an hour Tycho would see Ammadeus's retribution come full swing.

The consequence couldn't be placed into effect last year as those tributes had been pulled with careful concise planning by Capitol officials months before the plan came into fruition / announced to the public. But, since the entire system of how the teens in the arena were picked, it opened the specter to a whole new scope of opportunities. Every single slip of paper in the bowl would have Tycho's name written on it. The kid messed up, so Ammadeus accidently 'messed' up the documentation of all the documentations. He hated the leader of Panem. Just as much as he did about wearing stupid glasses. " _But what can I do? I'm just a lonely, poor kid from District 5_."

All of the district knew what happened, and it was a marvelous mystery on how Tycho survived, given he had ingested some of the powder into his lungs, a far higher dose of specific chemicals to be considered even close to healthy, as the consumption of all dangerous elements in a lab meant death if not treated quickly enough. Something in Tycho's genome made him immune to the mixture, that a sulfuric acid and cyanide mixture could prove to be non lethal for a specific genetic code in his DNA. He wore it like a badge, and although his skin showed some signs of the contamination such as the ashy skin, and the coughing up of volcanic ash, he was not internally infected with the symptoms as a few Capitolites had been when exposed to the product. Tycho could proudly claim to be invulnerable to ash. No irritation, no coughing, nothing. Even better was that the symptoms could not be spread, and if he were to have children later on in life, they wouldn't have the chance to receive his problematic issues of being a walking volcano.

"If I had only decided to abandon the work when I knocked it over..." Tycho shook his head angrily, knowing full and well his stubbornness and inability to give up cemented in stone his death. "Everyone wants to sign me off and say I'm going to die in that arena. I want to believe my life hasn't ended yet. No one can count me out yet!"

Ever since he was young, Tycho had the vital spirit of a cougar. He'd never rest till he got the goal he sought from the get go. He took a particular likeness to the more rebellious side of the work field as well. In chemistry in school, he never followed instructions. Almost set the room on fire with his stupidity, burning off his eyebrows for a couple weeks. Went around getting called Mr. Lethal, with the lab explosion and ash malfunction. Danger followed him wherever he went.

In a reverse world, on the outside, he did not look the part everyone claimed he had to his name. Everything about Tycho was small, minus his frames sitting in a crooked fashion on his name. A small nose, a scrawny build with zero muscle, earlobes which stuck to the sides of his neck like gum on paper, and the wave of hazel brown hair slicked back with sweat and oil from a tough day's work. He had a huge ego resting in the tiniest places of his heart, and exuded meekness and smallness to the whole world. He particularly gravitated towards the introverted personality, with the basis of how you unleashed the best and worst sides of you at the best times possible when people didn't expect it, so surprising it could kill. The arena would be an amazing test run of that ideal, as the people in the district hardly got near him due to the incident two years ago.

" _It's almost like the whole district acts as if I'm radioactive. Perhaps, for Halloween I should dye my skin in green paint and walk around, groaning incessantly. I could get a quick scare out of that, I suppose._ " he grinned to himself, liking that his sense of humor actually played to the negatives people pressed on him.

On the days when work slowed down to a snail's pace, and there would be no one to tell Tycho what to do, he'd nestle himself into the crook of an oak tree, hidden from the sun by leaves and comforted by emerald green grass glades that'd tickle his skin till he died of laughter. He'd drop by his house before finding his hideout, picking up a book on the molecular theory. It was a gift for his birthday, the only gift he ever received from anyone his whole life on the special day that contained nothing that special, only just the day he had been born into the world. No biggie.

With a quiet ambiance of a desolate town square, the wind blowing, the softness of the grass, the roughness of the oak tree and the warmth of the sun's rays, Tycho could find nothing more perfect in all of District 5. Almost like a second home if the first home didn't exist. He could only hope the hellish arena he would be dropped into a week from today would provide that one spot of comfort. If he managed to get a place comfortable enough, there would be no need to have a game. He'd win off the bat.

He wouldn't give a rat's ass if he died. The ashy concoction stirring up in his lungs, being revealed on his skin... it lied there as a blessing to be outreached and taken. Everyone would fear him, for a possible contamination, unless his district partner was an idiot for a girl, and babbled to everyone that he truly could be touched and interacted without dying. He rolled his eyes.

"Knowing the ladies in this district, that possibility isn't too far off." he snickered.

Tycho inhaled a deep breath, coughing some with ash coating his fingers. A warm breeze tickled his leg, and he smiled. In the moment of all time, on the particular reaping day, in this moment, he felt content.

Perhaps running a blade through his enemies in the arena wouldn't be such a bad thing after all.

He nodded, rather liking that idea. Tycho looked up at the sky, face smug, mouth curled into a smirk, eyes daring.

"Come on Capitol. Give it the best you've got. I dare you. Anything you throw at me, I'll retaliate back tenfold. You can't knock me down." he declared boldly.

The last thing on Tycho's mind was death. And far from it would he experience such a stupid action.

* * *

 **Magenta Miranda: District 5 Female P.O.V ( _15_ )**

* * *

"Tell me another story Maggie! Tell me another one!" cried Magenta Miranda's nine year-old sister, Euphraise. The fifteen year old scoffed to herself, elbows balancing on the windowsill, a gentle breeze blowing back her dirty blonde hair, showing to the ants crawling on the granite her seafoam eyes, tanned skin, and oak freckles. She smiled at her sister, knowing time on her hands was short and needed to be well spent. Reaping stood only half an hour away, and she didn't need to fret over the possibility of her name being called out of that glass bowl when she had family to care about.

"There's hardly anything left to tell..." she teased, playfully tickling Euphraise in the ribs. Her sister laughed and laughed, her voice carrying throughout the home. Magenta rolled her eyes at the noisy level her sibling giggled for it could be hinted that all the damn dogs in the neighborhood could hear the Miranda sisters losing their minds once again,

"Well, there's always an old tale you can let me know. I bet there's hundreds!" Euphraise clapped her hands.

Magenta sighed. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay then, I suppose I can give you another little story..." the fifteen year-old played along, rubbing her hands together. The brief warmness from the friction of skin on skin heated her body where she felt like being hugged lightly by a phantom, one that'd never let go and always be there for her. "I'll let you know of an old tale known around here as The Time The Old Man Kept His Newspaper."

"Seems kinda long..." Euphraise groaned at the title, knowing when the heading took up more than five words, the story took up more than an hour to hear. She loved when big sister hunkered down to tell her fantasies of long ago, before she was born, but even a little nine year old like her had places to be and things to do. The annual uprooting of a tree in town's square couldn't be missed!

Magenta cracked her knuckles, an idiosyncrasy she often exhibited when telling whimsical fantasies of kings or knights in shining armor. This time around however, her story would contain honest truth and bring out the realness in her- something fiction often never did. "This little story, my dear sis, brings us back almost a hundred years ago, when Panem was still forming the known Capitol, and thirteen districts," Euphraise's eyes rose at the mentioning of 13. She always wondered what the old place used to look like, but due to the bombing, never got to see it first hand. "The Capitol didn't have as much power as it does now back a hundred years ago."

"Why not?"

The fifteen year old hesitated, teeth grinding over lips, fingers tapping the windowsill gently and unsurely. "I honestly don't know, Paise. Many things can happen in this world and we won't know how they got there or why they do the things they do. All up for speculation I suppose, but I digress. Anyways, of all the forming sectors, District 5 looked like it'd be set up as the head of Panem."

"Wow! That's awesome! Our district being the Capitol? Man, if that was true..." Euphraise clapped her hands together giddily, the thought making herself be beside all else.

"I imagine that everyday too," Magenta cooed, ruffling her hair. " _Perhaps we wouldn't be dying for other people's enjoyments this time._ "

Ever since she was a little girl, she always understood the ins and outs of Panem. Who'd run the system, what backstabbing needed to take place on whom and why. How that when the sun dipped below the horizon, the true demons came out to party, and that such a thing as evil existed, even in her own backyard. Whether it manifested as the one damn root which tripped her on the way to school, or the golden retriever who tried biting her hand off when she tried to pet it at the homeless shelter. The rain cloud which destroyed her favorite shirt when she was ten... evil took many forms and never stopped coming.

Magenta, at least on standards for a girl was by no way weak. She had one of the more manlier jobs of the teens her age, given the position to help the town mayor in overseeing the creation of solar panels, and then being the muscle force to weld them, lift them, among other specialized jobs. Gave good pay too, her parents making lower than nothing as scientists overseeing a new form of pesticide for District 11 farmers. Much like District 3, 5 got to work with all the other districts as power and technology went a long way in establishing a firm economy. Deep down, Magenta hoped to take up the mayor position one day, being so damn good at that, she could be elected to a Capitol position and move everyone else she knew up there, to escape the fiendish hell below and to spare those she cared about from the Reapings. They'd be gruesome spectators up in luxury, but least not participating in it.

Despite all the loudness, she sat on the sidelines quietly, wanting so desperately to have people pity her. Pity was... an interesting emotion. She hardly felt it as those who honestly deserved it came around once a lifetime. Paralysis victims, blind and deaf people, and to be added soon to the list, those tributes selected to go into the Hunger Games. They needed it, acclaimed it rightfully. Those who had money and cried boo-hoo because they didn't have enough money to get the new fancy mansion overlooking the sea? They gladly could go have sex with a pinecone for all Magenta cared.

Looking at last year's games, that's where Pablo Woed and Marie Floss failed. They didn't play pity correctly. Pablo flat out, or so rumor said, told Jerald Donnor, Head Gamemaker, he was suicidal. Someone with a mental capacity like that shouldn't have ever been dropped into the arena in the first place, taken home and replaced was how protocol should've gone. He died as no one helped him, even with the knowledge at hand. Marie forgot to expect the unexpected. A wolf could just in fact leap from a high ledge and dodge the sword thrust from another tribute.

"Where they failed... I could succeed." Magenta whispered.

"What was that, sis?" Euphraise asked.

The fifteen year old blinked. "N- nothing. I... just thinking to myself," She licked her lips, glancing over at the clock. Time read ten minutes till the reaping started, the hands inching closer and closer together. "Big sister has to leave now. Something important is happening in the square and I have to be in attendance." Magenta got up to leave.

"Can I come?" the nine year old shifted to face her sister.

"No! You cannot come! Against the rules, " Magenta cried out. Seeing as the younger Miranda sibling recoiled, tears threatening to spring from the sudden harshness, Magenta bit her tongue and tried again. "Sorry sweetheart, you cannot join me. It's a teen thing."

Euphraise frowned. "Oh," she said, voice downcast. "A _teen_ thing. I understand. Love you, and have fun at this teen thing."

"I don't think fun is the right adjective you're looking for..." the older Miranda girl said slowly, walking to the front door. She opened it, and out into the world of District 5 did she go.

If there ever was one thing that could suck the life out of the world, mention killing and color would drain so fast the concrete would look sickly. That's how District 5 seemed, a whole zombie congregation flocked in front of her house, each teenager between the ages of twelve and eighteen facing ahead to the left, in a line, moving forward, ever so slowly. Magenta scanned her head down to see town square out in the distance, where the lines were branching off into sixteen groups. No time like the present to turn back?

Magenta placed one foot on the pebble path that led from the front door to the street when her eyes lit up as her gaze noticed one broad male standing out of the crowd. "Peter?" she called.

Said boy turned his head, eyes brightening, a smile forming. "Magenta! There you are!"

The eager girl ran from her house, dancing over the hot asphalt road before leaping into her boyfriend's arms. The happy couple of two years greeted each other with a firm kiss on the lips before Peter dropped her to the ground. "I didn't expect you to be _here_ of all places." she panted, the quick burst of speed of roughly twenty yards taking the wind out of her sails.

"I knew this was your house, but I expected you to be farther up, already in the square perhaps." Peter grinned, hugging his girlfriend tight. He was tall for his age, shaggy onyx hair down to his eyes, hidden behind piercing diamond eyes and a dazzling smile. Magenta knew no better man in her world to exist then him. The two met when they were roughly entering grade school, hitting it up like peas in a pod, constantly hanging out, constantly being assigned to the same solar panel work group, and they made it official to see that if dating were to happen, would the strong relationship end up in fragments. Such would not be the case, unless the Hunger Games decided to rip in between the beauty of young love.

"I see you're deciding to wear the coat I bought you." she quipped, poking him in the shoulder.

"You mean this old ratty thing? Yeah, it's nice, I guess." he chortled.

Magenta gave him a good shove. "Perhaps I should fake out the announcer and propose that you volunteered. Insulting my hard earned cash and all."

"I had been paid an extra two dollars that week, and you know it." Peter flashed a toothy grin.

"Even more the reason." she said, looking up at the clouds, anything other than him.

The two locked hands and waited in the doomsday line. Slow, monotonous seconds ticked by, hanging on with bated breath. Peter and Magenta never let go of each other, trading small talk as they were the only two producing any happiness or chivalry in the path to the square. A blend of slate grey, muted out sky blue, drowning amaranthines, sharp roses, and vicarious midnights stood out from the crowd of those waiting to be sectioned off for the reaping. As they got close, Magenta's heart began beating faster and faster, thumping like a mallet beneath the skin, heat flowing through her veins. Peter tightened his grip before it was their turn.

"I guess, this is where I leave you?" he opined.

"We meet each other back here?" she asked.

"Most definitely."

The two parted, Magenta heading left, Peter heading right. Due to both of them being fifteen, the two lovers were lined up side by side, although the mass cluster of bodies made seeing each other very difficult. Despite the best attempts of the wind from above trying to cool down the teenagers, muggy dampness clamped to their skin, each rocking back and forth to their own tempo, stomach in knots, blood chilling, eyes frantically dancing for something to hold comfort onto.

Up on stage lied two bowls and a microphone. Each bowl had been painted a specific color, an impermeable, impossible to see through black. The papers were there though, as she could barely make out pallid corners of strips poking out from the rim of the bowl. Females were more likely contained in the bowl closest to the ladies, the males being opposite that, closest to the gentlemen. The microphone stood in solemn confinement, squared off by the bowls and the stands they sat on. The sunlight reflected off of the metal, reminding Magenta too much of an axe blade, probably her least favorite weapon of all time for reasons she couldn't exactly decipher herself.

The doors to the Justice Building popped open, and if someone were to drop a pin in that crowd, you'd hear it. Out came the victor of the very 1st Hunger Games, Cranston Ervack. He looked exactly the same as he used to, just a tad bit more stressed. Magenta remembered the emerald eyes, the shaggy oak hair, the scar line, the soft smile, gentle hands, a relaxing voice... all put in a nice package in winner form on stage. The victor scanned the crowd. " _Perhaps we'll have more suitable tributes this time around than Pablo and Marie_." Cranston thought to himself, before stepping up boldly to the microphone. He tapped it, static bursting out from speakers above, making everyone including himself jump or cover their ears. His legs twitched at the sudden sound.

"Greetings District 5. My name is Cranston Ervack, and this is the very first reaping for your district for the 2nd annual Hunger Games. Protocol has been the same in all other districts I've visited before here, and it is my duty to tell you now in case some have forgotten," he spoke, eyes still searching, the gaze never dropping, his heart still soaring. "All children between the ages of twelve to eighteen in each district are put up in a ceremony called the Reaping to be selected to compete in the annual Hunger Games, a televised live fight to the death for all of Panem to see. Each district will offer up one man and one girl to do this arduous task, to hopefully come out as a winner."

" _The rules are such bullshit_." Magenta expressed crossly in her mind.

"Without further... uh, ado, I'll select the lady tribute," Cranston nodded to the onlookers. He made his way over to the black bowl on his right, or Magenta's left, dipping a hand in, deep so no one could see where it stopped. The papers on top ruffled a bit as his fist took a handful of slips out, agreeing on two. Cranston reached out of the bowl, and at that precise moment, a sharp gust of wind blew one of the strips from his grasp. The victor frowned at the now free floating pallid paper which took an air ride to the sky. Seeing as digging again would be pointless, he went back to the microphone, the second strip in hand. He unfolded the paper, removing the black sticker, and read the name into the microphone clear as day. "Magenta Miranda."

She screamed. With all her might, adding it too. Back home, Euphraise would wonder why sister never returned home. Her parents somewhere would call her name out to the hills, to the machines and factories hoping for a response and she wouldn't be there. Magenta looked at the stage with hopelessness in her heart. The strategy of being weak seemed so far away, almost like a dream she wished to wake up from, but couldn't.

Magenta slid out of the crowd, walking forward to the stage. Cranston's eyes seized her immediately, looking up and down. " _I'm probably some sort of failure, for reacting so terrified, aren't I?_ " she thought glumly, before remembering she more than likely was being recorded. Magenta squinted her eyes shut, feeling the tears yelling to emerge and pour out, but crying could be saved for later, in the comfort of whatever she could find. She joined Cranston on stage, eyes going to the girls that were left down on the ground. Each one was so damn lucky. No one volunteered for her. In District 5, you were out on your own.

Cranston nodded again, seeing as no further remarks on anyone's half other than his own would be said. The victor clapped his hands together. "Well... I suppose proceedings must go in order for the male tribute. Shall we?" He didn't wait for a response, instead taking a strand, not knowing that on each and every one of them the same name written in dark ink would be there. Magenta could clearly see the paper, eyebrows furrowing together. She remembered hearing the name, but had no idea why it stuck.

"A Mr. Tycho Brunfields?"

From the fourteen year old male section, a hand raised itself in the air, moving as said hand belonged to a boy who moved forward in the crowd. His skin was darker than that of a normal Caucasian, grey splotches lining his arms, neck and cheeks. He coughed, plumes of some powder coming out from the upheaval. He made his way to the stage, standing side by side with Cranston opposite Magenta.

"Tycho reporting for duty, victor sir." the boy whispered.

"That's bullshit!" a voice yelled out from the crowd.

Cranston opened his mouth to speak when the immediate cut off caused his emerald eyes to snap to the location of the sound, coming from the fifteen year old male section. Magenta closed her eyes. _He_ just _had_ to say something, didn't he? The person belonging to said voice, an enraged Peter, forced himself up to the front of the stage. The victor raised his head ever so slightly. "I suppose your opinion couldn't have been said from the crowd?"

"Magenta needs to get off this stage, right now!" Peter pointed an incriminating finger at Cranston.

"And who are you to speak like that? I follow the rules I've been told," Cranston ordered, face turning cross. He hardly got angry. "Magenta has already been picked. She cannot be volunteered for, you two are different genders. Again, I'll ask. Who are you?"

"That's Peter. He's... he's my boyfriend." Magenta said, looking down at her hands. She just wanted the whole situation to die already and go away. Luck have it, it wouldn't be on her side.

Cranston's eyes moved back and forth between the couple, connecting the dots immediately. He closed them in a solemn, gentle touch. Such was the tragedy of young love. "I'm afraid, Peter, that this cannot happen."

"Let me take his place then!" yelled Magenta's boyfriend, the finger switching to Tycho who jumped at the sudden aggression.

"That cannot happen either. Tycho has already taken his place on this stage. If you wanted to be here with your girlfriend, you would've needed to volunteer for this young man when he was coming up here."

"I will not tell you what I can't and cannot do!" Peter growled, stepping forward menacingly.

Magenta's skin began to crawl, and she could feel the presence of a growing mass behind her, but she dare not look behind her. "Peter, you need to settle yourself and calm down..."

"Sir, you need to control your temper, or I'll have you escorted from the premises. If that cannot happen, then other forceful methods may have to take place." Cranston said calmly, blood rising.

"Like hell you will!"

Multiple actions happened at once. Someone knocked Tycho and Magenta to the ground, both tributes hitting the stage. A blur of men in white uniforms rushed forward, two grabbing Cranston by the shoulders and throwing him aside. The men in white jumped off the stage and leaped for Peter. The surprised male made a quick punch before a deafening gunshot rocketed throughout District 5, a bullet striking him in the chest.

To Magenta's horror, a crimson flower sprouted from Peter's chest before she fell into unconsciousness from the abrupt force.

As darkness consumed her, the last she saw was a bullet land in the square of Peter's forehead.

* * *

 **And there we are guys! That's the District 5 reaping for you all, a new chapter, #8: The Atomic Number of Death completed. What did you think about our two new tributes? Tycho and Magenta sure are vast opposites, and _they_ both don't know each other, and _neither_ volunteered, so I didn't do two common things in one place for once! *fist pumps* What do you guys think of them so far? Was Peter's reaction and the way Cranston handled it okay? Thanks for reading you guys! Please review! We're so close to a hundred reviews, and if that happens, this'll be the third story of mine to break such a milestone which will be beyond my wildest dreams. I'd love to try and have this story beat out my most reviewed story which sits comfortably at 266, but even that is hard to fathom. I fired up the random number generator, and the next district we've spawned to is District 2. I know a few readers out there who are dying for them to get the chance to shine, and here we are. Once again, thanks for stopping by and checking this story out, and I'll hopefully see you all on my next update of Chapter #9: Hearts of Stone, which should be coming out by February 9th or somewhere around there. I love you all so much! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	11. Chapter 9: Hearts of Stone

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a new chapter of Death Under the Sky, #9: Hearts of Stone. Yes, I know it's been like eighteen days since I've last updated this story, but, apologies are in order because I'll never fully be able to stay on top of reaping chapters as they are so tedious and well, repetitive no matter how amazing the characters. Since I only have two P.O.V's to work with, I always try to maximize the time I have with the two characters and I try to aim for a clean cut 2500 per character so you all can get a clear gist, but that's not working I suppose. The chapters afterwards (or the entire story), actually, will aim much easier and be a better load off which is why I've never done SYOTS and I am very unsure whether or not I'm going to do another (I might... but don't count on it as these stories take much practice and carefulness- I don't care about the review # which SYOTS tend to get, but I care about quality). Today we are going to be seeing two tributes from District 2, Artemis Stevenson by TheGreenForests and Armaus Titus by Flame Falcon, great tributes. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Artemis Stevenson: District 2 Female P.O.V ( _18_ )**

* * *

Even on her eighteenth birthday, Artemis Stevenson never once received any girly cosmetic products, dresses, or jewelry from her friends and family for her birthday, but rather weapons, manuals on dirty and rough jobs few dared to have, and other extremities others would believe to not be catered for her, a girl. Ironically, the day she turned eighteen, she gets an extra present handed to her straight from the Capitol. A reaping. A decision at chance to pick two people to represent their district and ship them off of their doom. What a way to end a birthday, no? "Least it isn't perfume..." Artemis growled to herself, before sliding her hands over the new knife collection set she received from her brother, a giveaway gift on a bunch of daggers he never touched.

Artemis and Apollo Stevenson. Ironic, clichéd, and all the good like for being named after Greek gods and goddesses, a common trend in the world of Panem to be named after lore that few actually cared about. Stunning in their own right, lethal in their mannerisms. Given that District 2 uprooted a more regime style setting and prioritized discipline, battle, kinship and other cares, they were considered to be very dangerous in terms of the districts and the citizens that came from the mason mine field.

She had been selected into the training program for the Hunger Games a year after the Dark Days rebellion ended, where in an interim two years of what the hell needed to be done against the rebels, the lucky ones who discovered the trial early prepped- Districts 1, 2, and 4 getting the excessive advantage and by two months after the crippling defeat, leaders kissed the ground in front of them and made bribes and affiliations to get back into the good graces, to allow those who were willing to train to be able to. Though the specific purpose never truly got unearthed, after last year's sudden surprise of two greats, a Mr. Flint Terio and a Miss Diamond Zrae, the potency of effective training hurdled to number one in everyone's minds.

Her twin brother Apollo took the reigns in the Stevenson family to become the stronghold of the house, to take the lead and when ready, would dive into the Hunger Games to give glory to District 2 forever, especially after everyone last year they counted on had failed, no Career brought home a win, but the scum from the outer districts instead. " _Pah,_ " Artemis thought while selecting a fine blade with a jagged three inch steel cut and wooden bone handle. " _They won by fluke. Destined to lose... they will have their downfall. We, the uppers, will win. Such is the shame of being prepped first."_

Artemis Stevenson stood at a stocky build of 5'11, quite tall for a girl after all the boys managed to play catch up in the puberty game. Her hazel brown hair lay softly against her back at shoulder length, piercing emerald eyes that struck fear even into inanimate objects, tanned skin at the legs and arms, a freckled face that from afar looked like blood splotches, she acted like the tough one she was, a tomboy not afraid to step into a man's world.

Her brother Apollo made a perfect match, being two inches taller, having gorgeous electric halcyon hair, and dark mahogany eyes, his build meant the same thing- threatening. As he had expected, Apollo would become the one to bring the Stevenson name glory, till Artemis found her calling in combat and decided to join the race too, one she had been selected for, while he had volunteered. For the past two years, the two siblings fought in a constant battle to stay at the top, so when they got to the ultimate day they both turned eighteen, their parents would pick the volunteer who'd step so bravely up to the plate for the ripening, and they'd come back, golden laurels wrapped around their heads, bloodthirsty crowds cheering their name on and on, on and on it'd go, the incessant applause, the blinding pallid smiles and joyous laughter. That'd be one of them. She destined to make it herself.

A bow sat next to the knives, with a set of arrows as well. One watching would choose to think she'd throw the knives and shoot the arrows, but Artemis had something else in mind. The particular dagger set had grooves on the side of the handle so it could be strung back by something and shot forward like a projectile. A flung forward blade meant just as much, if not more than one thrown by hand. The arrows she desired to throw like knives, keeping the arms straight, the dummies dead... all in a good run.

She picked up the bow. It felt comfortable in her hands, the slick steel frame, burning flame designs on the side, and a strong strung wrapped with cotton and the gum of a tree found on a different continent, though she couldn't remember exactly where that place was located. Artemis took the knife closest to that, one with a solid black handle, jagged like a steak knife. The groove was long enough for the blade to be brought back and fit into place well enough, just so she could fire.

Lining up her shot, Artemis narrowed her gaze to spot the dead on bulls-eye of the plastic target. The release of her hand brought the string forward with a _thwack_ , and a nice _whoosh_ of the air, the blade went soaring. Artemis had such a manicured grip on the handle, the knife arced into the air rather than flying straight to break the sound barrier, arcing high like a paper airplane before diving straight into the heart.

The eighteen year old smirked. Not bad. A new dagger, a different result, as the blade dipped below instead of above, attacking like a dolphin and embedding where, if the target was a person, that knife would be stuck right up the crack of the butt. Not a pleasant way to die, either. Artemis went down the line till she stopped at the last knife. There was hardly any room on the dummy, eleven different stab wounds and blades puncturing the plastic in odd, peculiar places. She frowned at the last, lone steel weapon. Her throwing game wasn't... exactly the greatest, Artemis always injured herself by nicking her thumb on the sweet spot of the blade, or it caught her elbow and stung like hell.

If her parents ultimately decided she would be the head honcho of the Stevenson family to go into the Hunger Games, she'd need to take her time and try. Even so, Artemis would be requested by Apollo to practice up in the fields that she struggled with, to stay atop of the competitors. One enemy that knew your weaknesses got that much better. She ran through her head the things she knew would hinder her in the field. " _Ears aren't the greatest... literally sometimes I cannot even hear loud explosions. Hand to hand combat is detrimental for me. Climbing isn't a great asset as my build makes higher up places harder to reach by muscle exertion, shit what else?_ " She couldn't come up with another, save the one staring straight back at her in the face from being a terrible knife thrower.

She gritted her teeth, deciding in a rash split decision, to throw her worst weakness. Due to the bad preparations, as Artemis chucked the knife down the academy hall, the blade glanced her thumb of her left hand which was the dominant one for throwing, and the jagged edge took off a good four centimeters of the ball of her thumb, sideways from the fingerprint down. Artemis screamed in pain, clutching her injured hand weakly in a glazed manner. Her ears detected that the blade found its mark, and the dummy clattered over to the floor due to the heavy weight already stuck in the plastic in the first place.

Artemis stared in shock at the gushing crimson puddle forming underneath her from the wound, mind blazing into a panic mode. In the academy, accidents were so close to each other, people almost called it conspiracy theories and that they were set up on purpose. She searched frantically for the pallid medical kit, the screaming white box with the bright red medical cross smack dab on the front, eyes lighting up when her gaze found the prize. Artemis leapt at the white box, flinging it open while having a blood puddle trail dripping behind her, the pain immense.

The eighteen year old rummaged through the medical supplies. Band-aids? Good... but not good enough for the wound inflicted. Scissors? Hell no! That'd make the injury far worse and she didn't need to be incapacitated from participating in the Hunger Games- being a quitter, those never prospered. Her heart leaped for joy at the sight of gauze, the pallid tape being seized and wrapped feverishly up around the wound. A dark splotch of human's liquid life stained the cloth, but at least the throbbing dulled. Artemis sighed to herself and closed the medical kit, glancing back sheepishly at the fallen over dummy. Least the ceiling didn't crack.

Someone clapped behind her, slow and somewhat mockingly, but the fervent intent stood fully behind it. "Artemis, I believe that is a new low of stupidity and unpreparedness for you. A Career doing things rashly? Don't want another Diamond Zrae mistake, do we?"

Her cheeks burned at this voice, and she turned around slowly, before mustering a glare to give the evil eye to her cocky, blonde haired brother, Apollo Stevenson. The twin sat against the wall, eyes bright in amusement, hands red from the clapping. "Oops, sorry brother, that you forgot we are all humans. Nature inclined to make us do mistakes, actually."

Apollo straightened himself up, going over and assessing his sister's wounded hand. "That blunder could cause you the selection."

"What do you mean?" Emerald eyes blinked, thoroughly confused.

"Mom and dad," her twin repeated. "You came down here to the academy to do some last minute training, I assume. Being the good child, I stayed behind. They fought a tad on who'd be volunteering, but they ultimately decided on you."

Artemis blinked at the news. "Come again?"

"You. Are. Volunteering. For. The. Stevenson. Family. Better?" the blonde droned, eyes twinkling mischievously.

A sickening grin grew on the girl's face, hands rubbed in delight, but stopped at the wincing of the pain. The hard work finally paid off, she had been noticed other than her brother for the first time ever. Half of her wanted to jut out her jaw and tongue in ridicule, making sure her brother felt the full gist of failure. The other side whispered not to, act humble, don't be a typical arrogant bitch. She settled for a grim smile. "That's good to hear. You upset?"

He shrugged. "When three years of your life has been spent working at something that had a fifty/fifty chance, quite so."

"Should've tried harder then." she quipped, smirking low.

"Couth of you," Apollo rolled his eyes. The funny, annoyed act dropped. "Are you okay?" he asked, nodding at the injured finger.

Artemis grimaced. "Yeah, I suppose so. Ran through the list of weaknesses in my head before I threw the knife, saw it wouldn't go away unless I tried. Then... me not thinking caused pain. My throw landed for once, but I still got hurt in the process." She lifted her hand up to eye level, seeing that she couldn't straighten her thumb fully without causing severe pain.

"Seems that the cut went too deep."

"Four centimeters only." she mused.

"Four centimeters in that arena could mean life or death, Arty, and you know it." Apollo reprimanded.

The female of the two stuck out her tongue at this. She hated being called by her nickname, one he had placed on her so many years ago, it made freedom seem young. "Perhaps. But, I can clearly handle myself."

"Never be so sure."

"You'd be saying the same thing if you were me!" Artemis snapped suddenly, hating his holier-than-thou attitude she wished to smack off the side of his face.

"Maybe I would," the blonde shot back. "More than likely. Never know. But, you know what? I'm not in your position, you are. Now my concern is making sure that my sister gets home alive and makes District 2 seem amazing. Things don't work out perfect now, but wishy washy instead. There's more important things to focus on, and that'd be you."

She wouldn't lie, Artemis liked his honesty. "Thank you, that means a lot. _Can't say the same for you_."

"Are you nervous?" he asked.

She bit his lip. "I don't know. Can't be for sure, 100% definite, you know. Things change."

"I think you'll do alright. There won't be a missed hour from me, for one second will I not be watching you fighting to win us back and come home." Apollo's expression grew more serious in the blink of an eye.

Artemis hugged him tight, head resting softly against her chest. Despite their differences, despite their feuding and boughs of competition, she loved him more than anything, she valued him more than words could tell. She'd get through this. Artemis Stevenson would rise above it all. She'd win. Artemis Stevenson would become the victor of the 2nd Hunger Games, and if not, least she died trying.

* * *

 **Armaus Titus: District 2 Male P.O.V _(17_ )**

* * *

Water trickled down his forehead, bruised fingers rubbed over calloused skin, and he coughed a great deal before resuming his position back in the shower. Armaus Titus, at seventeen years old, contemplated the things that made the world run- when man met machine and the two melded to make one body that functioned with a beating heart and had the brain of something controlled at a computer desk.

His sheered to the scalp black hair clung to his forehead in patches of dark, murky soup, so wet from the bombardment above it felt as if streams of sticky coagulated chocolate syrup was sliding down his back. He shuddered, cold felt strange in a world of warmth. Alone, yet thinking of the parts that caused it to function. " _Normal things a boy will describe to himself in the shower on reaping day_." he thought to himself, the thought commonplace and rather silly.

For a man so highly wound up and elevated, perhaps he needed to be thinking childish ever so often.

Armaus shut the water off, stepping out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around his waist, shaking his head feverishly to dry out his hair. Steel blue eyes gazed back at him from the mirror in the bathroom, the only mirror in the house despite his parents being somewhat stronger and upper by District 2 standards. Both of his parents were peacekeepers, tough militant parents who demanded the very best and sought to have the cream of the crop standing in their bedroom by five A.M. sharp, dressed and ready to go.

When the training program became a legitimate thing in District 2, he had been signed up without a moments hesitation, it'd make the vouching and applying to be a peacekeeper so much easier. Of course, Armaus didn't rebuttal to that, but moreso ducked his head and nodded, silent and deadly without a word. His two younger siblings, a brother and sister far too young to understand the dire straits the world often ran people on, looked to their parents as magnificent people, gods to be praised and looked at in an ivory golden hue.

He made his way into the kitchen, hands immediately seizing a golden necklace wrapped around the door handle. Armaus clutched at his neck, feeling the close comfort of knowing something he cared about was in arm's reach. It had been a gift from his father when he turned thirteen, but the necklace didn't come finished- the parts did. A chain, four metal plaques to choose from, an etched pencil to write something down on the metal, and you assembled it yourself. District 2 belonged to the masonry family. Typical and necessary of a simple citizen, you worked with graphite, flint, and a hammer at the age of two.

The necklace was gold, one of Armaus's favorite colors in all of the spectrum to pick, due to its brightness that radiated hope, something to believe in. Etched in grey stencil, tendrils of thunderclouds, was the Latin phrase _Qui audet adipiscitur_ or in English, "Who dares wins."

Armaus made himself a glass of water from the sink. "Who dares, wins." he said softly, hands grazing over the necklace.

He felt compelled to believe. Believe... in _something_ , whether it be someone above deciding the cards, or an ethereal paradise to flock to when the deeds were all said and done. The seventeen year old didn't simply exist to watch others die, there _had_ to be more, an ideal he kept close but didn't share often. Rummaging around in the District library, he came across the term of _religion_ , in a massive encyclopedia. He was surprised those types of recordings still existed, for how technological the Capitol seemed nowadays.

He wasn't one to brag. His parents being peacekeepers made quite a salary, affording a two story house near the inner lying city circle of District 2 making trips to town square fairly easy and feasible. He had everything he could think of. His own personal training facility in the basement, servants on hand to get whatever he asked for, the best tutors, more money than ever... on District 2 standards, Armaus lived life good, he lived it well. Despite all that, by taking away the glamour, the glitz and halcyon shine, you had a young man who felt jaded with it all, bored to the core.

Perhaps the reason why Armaus Titus took to religion like wildfire. Kept him occupied, with training of course for some ever greater good he couldn't see in the inevitable future. If it meant snapping necks in the Hunger Games... so well. Armaus's social status revolved around that concept, the mentality of brutal killing and perhaps worse from the academy, training tributes to be the worse adversaries to run into and if you did, it meant lights out. Game over. Armaus couldn't except that; humanity lived deep down in you whether you wished to admit it or not.

On the religious study, he came across something old, and he knew it was old by the number of zeroes that followed its 'birth', as Armaus called it. Roman Catholicism, deviating from and spawning a religion called Christianity. He latched onto it, devout and all, that there was more and it'd be the topic to consume his thoughts and eat him whole happily, but the world would bite back and it'd hurt. That a person had a soul, that a person had a body and mind. The body and soul were separate, each had their own entity to listen to but functioned as one when put back together.

It made killing, the ideal hammered in beyond belief at the academy, more easier to digest. The immoral act of killing, a crime, designated to be okay in arena... how did the flip work exactly? Armaus being ordered by the state to kill, but his spirit screamed at him to stop, to not dare raise that sword for the sake of having your soul reaped. He's a tool, a damn filthy, rusty tool that gets beaten by the larger shovel one too many times till it cracks and shatters. However, the separation of soul and body made Armaus's consciousness and being much... more wholly and at ease. He acted as a vessel to perform tasks acquired from others. The mind has nothing to do with it, till the said task is complete and the flow happened and settled.

Also engraved on his necklace was the Latin saying _Ad astra per aspera_ or, in English, "hardship from the stars." A saying Armaus found to be rather peculiar but inspiring and thought evoking at the same time. He had it run inside his head often at times when training, often latching possessively onto the gladius, his favorite weapon. Canny of his necklace, the weapon often was painted gold and he used it to his advantage, having comfort do bidding.

The training sometimes left him exhausted, Armaus Titus knew exhaustion like no other. Built rather well from the time spent in blacksmith shops when not training, he had upper body strength for days and days to stagnate him further ahead, using ancient Roman techniques to the field, making the battleground an interesting place to battle as skills not exhibited for years suddenly sprung up. That action left his parents sometimes bitter, he deviated from the norm, his blacksmith training kept him sharp on weapons, as a master of sort to know how they're made, handled, weighed, the balance points that acted as pros and cons, why the list went on and on.

Armaus went back into the bathroom and dropped the towel, leaving him naked back in the mirror. With his build, it meant exertion required by those in a larger size. More of a marathon runner than a sprinter, he started out weak and came back strong, punching and striding ahead with the fever of a child hopped up on sugar, perhaps a tad bit more aggressive.

He fiddled with the necklace some more, before reaching for his clothes on the granite countertop of the shower, so he could get dressed. Reaping started in ten minutes, and punctuality was pivotal, something his father drilled into his head before he could even walk, crawling to family dinners and meetings, as he couldn't let people down. Armaus couldn't deny the chance of him being picked. Random possibility, but one nonetheless that could affect the way the wind blew.

Would he kill? Could he kill. Armaus shook his head in dissent. "Foolish thought..." he muttered. The seventeen year old could be tough, could be cold, knew what it took to act aggressive and launch forward into the state of strength and leadership, he did not act as some wilting flower in the breeze that could snap at the immense moment of pressure. If the situation demanded it, so be it.

Armaus got dressed, buttoning the last button of his dress shirt. No time like the present to look good, no? He fondled over simplistic things, some complex things, and things that fell straight down the middle. Toxic levels of blood outside the vessels that kept them, the durability of a knife against a stick of dynamite, how water would react if falling upon a flame, what exactly destroyed a man's heart, and how he could somehow still be sane by muttering ancient Latin phrases under his breath.

He opened the door to his house, meeting the sweaty and laborious air of District 2. Armaus inhaled, sighing deeply. _Home_. He was home. He wouldn't leave it. Not by a long shot.

Again, due to his parents being richer, he was able to have a house closer to the town square. As he approached closer, he could see the expectant faces of those already gathered before him. Frozen in stock fear, angry in beet red yelling, blue in grieving sickness, vile green vomit rising in the cheeks, black eroding laughter from those who didn't give a shit... and there Armaus stood in the general square, waiting, in a pallid white.

Calm. Emotionless.

Perhaps emotionless wouldn't be the best word to describe how he felt, but with the necklace hanging in front of his chest, and the comfort of a boring house with a lovely family just half a mile away, he felt content and happy. These idle games meant nothing in the grand scheme, just an obstacle Armaus Titus would step over.

At promptly mid-afternoon, when the sun had reached its beyond half way point, the town square filled up. People seemed to emerge from everywhere you could imagine, as if they were there the entire time and blended in like chameleons to be called out of hiding. Odd. Armaus frowned. Had he not noticed them before? Or did he just not care to look? Were these people so insignificant? Armaus hated that he had to think even something of the like.

He could spot out the older teens from the younger ones in the way they stood. Head held high, shoulders back, grinning and joking around, or flat faced serious by designing some stupid strategy to escape the crowd and whip into the wind. Armaus missed the shower, but decided to dwell on the younger kids, the eleven to fifteen year olds who fingered their clothes nervously, a few misplaced arrogant smiles here and there, however more often than not the rippling queasy feeling of uncertainty.

The Career ran over protocol in his head again. One male and female from each district between the ages of twelve and eighteen to be offered up as a courageous tribute to fight to the honorable death in the Hunger Games, a deadlocked arena in the middle of a forsaken nowhere to last out everyone. One bowl for the girls, one boy the guys, and ladies were drawn first. The reapings of the other districts were said to be televised, but there was a miscommunication and things fell short.

A hush fell over the crowd when the doors to the Justice Building opened, and one lone individual with the stalwart swagger of zero stepped out of the carpeted hall onto a firm stone stage. Armaus's heart skipped a beat. _Cranston Ervack. In the flesh_.

Not that he particularly liked or cared for the victor of the 1st Hunger Games, but he had to sympathize nonetheless that he had been thrown into a place he surely didn't belong and made it out alive despite all the hardships, if someone had expected him to do so or not was their business. The victor stood alone on the stage, a tiny pea in the middle of a wheat field, although the analogy made more sense in Armaus's head than aloud. Cranston's mahogany hair seemed wild, because unknown to the citizens of District 2, a murder had just taken place in District 5 where he had come from, a sight all to familiar to the boy's eyes. He preferred not to speak about. Emerald eyes drowning in fear did a quick glance over the crowd before the victor licked his lips, smiled, and stepped up to the microphone.

"Good afternoon, District 2. If we have not had the chance to be formally introduced, I am Cranston Ervack... victor of the 1st Annual Hunger Games." he said.

Armaus rolled his eyes. "It's always the simple details people mull over..." he sighed quietly, to no one but himself.

Cranston continued. "As I'm sure its been known, as you're a Career district, the rules of this reaping have been stated over and over, upon time after time again to let you know you're being chosen and all this crap none of you care about? Am I wrong?"

People in the congregation gave a wild shout. "Yes!"

The victor smiled. "Then, as usual, ladies first."

Quick to the action. Armaus liked that in the guy. Had a mission, had a job. He prepared to fulfill it. The girl bowl was filled to the top, slips of white paper overlapping each other and making blurred names in black marker blend together to a cloudy haze of midnight in a clear bowl. Cranston seized the paper in the middle, his hand digging for about a minute.

Armaus raised an eyebrow. " _I've been always focused on the male selection... never thought about the females._ " Whomever was to be chosen, he more than likely wouldn't know them.

Cranston opened his mouth to say the name on the card. "Pen-"

"I volunteer!" a female voice called out from the crowd.

Armaus's head snapped to the speaker, and everyone parted to reveal an eighteen year-old that seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place a finger on it. There were so many people that flew by in the academy when brawling and training, the blonde haired males and the blue eyed females all blended together, though she was different, hazel hair and light sea foam eyes that glittered bravely.

The victor on stage shook the hand of the volunteer. "And you are?"

"Everyone can know me as Artemis Stevenson." the girl smiled, although it turned into more of a strict, smug smirk.

Armaus snorted. " _Hopefully... hopefully her brain doesn't get too big from the Tom foolery, the flattery can be quite heavy_."

Cranston nodded at the female arrival, bringing his attention back to the crowd. "Time for the gentleman, shall we?"

The victor stepped (did he skip over?), to the bowl that held the males names on his left, or the crowd's right. The seventeen year old Cranston Ervack sighed deeply before reaching into the bowl, taking out a name without hesitating, without bothering to think of a new choice. He wanted out of District 2. The girl reminded him too much of Diamond Zrae, the bitch who actually catapulted the last events of the games to cause his win... Nydia's death, her own demise at the hands of Mako, Mako's betrayal against Ryder, Jake being unable to kill his ally causing Cranston to do the deed...

The victor shuddered, sweat dripping down his forehead. _Not here. Not now_.

Armaus's palms suddenly turned sweaty. "Oh please... perhaps not...?"

Cranston opened the slip and read the name, crisp as day. "Armaus Titus."

Shit. The boy looked around at the others around him, the boy who had just been called. He snapped his fingers, as a ' _just missed it_ ' type of signee.

So... so... so _fucking_ close.

Damn.

Oh well. Least Armaus had the right mindset for the games.

* * *

 **And there we are guys! Chapter 9 of Death Under the Sky: Hearts of Stone. Whom did this chapter exactly refer to, you think, with a stone heart of no emotion? I'm sorry about the inclusion of the f word, but I am allowing myself in T rated stories to let the occasional one slip if the situation truly calls for it, and someone like Armaus can have his own moments. What did you guys think of the tributes this time around? I loved them both, but then again I love like all the ones I have that are submitted to me, so it doesn't matter. I did the random number generator, got the same four numbers over again which we've already done, then I landed on 3! Woo hoo! District 3 is next everyone. Thank you so much for reading, and please review! Let me know what you thought of Artemis and Armaus, who do you like more? How do you think they'll do against the other tributes? We're almost done with reapings, just four more to slog through and the good bread and butter can take place, amen! I'll see you guys on the 24th by the earliest with the next chapter, #10: Short Circuited Bloodlust, and I'm super excited for it. I love you all! Have an amazing day. Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	12. Chapter 10: Short Circuit Bloodlust

**Hey everyone, it's Paradigm of Writing here with a new chapter of Death Under the Sky, #10: Short Circuit Bloodlust, which is our District 3 reaping! I am sorry that I keep on having to push back these updates by several days at a time, but these are the chapters in my stories that require a solid time schedule and sometimes with school that is just not allowable which is really irritating and all of that good stuff. Today we'll be meeting Iory Hathaway and Fallon Lewis, made by MirrorSpirit19 and cymrel respectively. Enjoy the chapter! I have a super important announcement at the end that I need you all to pay attention to, so read and then be prepared!**

* * *

 **Iory Hathaway: District 3 Male P.O.V (** _ **15**_ **)**

* * *

Glades of green grass were plucked with immense force as fifteen year-old Iory Hathaway sat in the ivory glade field overlooking the financial sector of District 3. He yawned, leaning back against the emerald pillow of nature, letting the sunlight his skin and the tenderness of its warmth knead his legs. Today was a good day, despite the fact that the reaping concerning the matter of the Hunger Games happened to be in a few hours, but even then he truly wasn't that worried. People fretted one way or another about it and in the end all the brainiac had to say was, "Slow down and breathe. Don't forget to take a breath when you feel like you'll pass out." Which… then happened to be all the time actually.

He examined a petunia between his fingers, how the soft and delicate rosy petals counteracted the iridescent stem. It was one of the only places in Three where there wasn't a heap of technological trash right next to it, or massive solar panels to fuel the connecting trains between Five and Six. Iory liked taking time to examine nature, he often felt like he was being too caught up in the business matters of Panem instead of taking time to observe and enjoy what truly mattered… the environment.

All the districts did this, ruining their home by constantly building massive arenas to host live death competitions, mass production of coal to exhume a mountain which would soon turn into an empty husk, destroying fields to grow and plant artificial trees just to strip them down for faux lumber… why it absolutely riddled a complete despising pit in his stomach that little could appease. Running and escaping to the hill often helped with that, but seldom did it mean much when all he had to do was roll over and see the trash of District 3. Iory snorted to himself.

"We're so smart yet we cannot see the slow poisoning of the planet around us. How ironic. My district makes technology to save people from this fate of ecological destruction, yet we do it while trying to prevent it. Perhaps humans are too stupid for their own good…" he trailed off.

His gaze went back to the petunia, the bone beach expanse of the blue sky, the halcyon sun in the sky. Time could slow down on this hill, or it could speed up, Iory didn't care. He particularly liked when the sun would hit his skin and illuminate it like a ghost, due to the pale complexion of most who worked in District 3. His emerald eyes glittered and shone behind a facet of compassion, which Iory exuded above all other emotions. Screw being evil and cold hearted to others, it's how Panem became the dictatorship now known to everyone.

Iory's light oak hair blended in well with the grass, and had he chosen to wear green today, he could've blended straight in with the hill. Often times when he would lay out in the openness of Panem, he'd think to places far away. Did someone else have the same passion like he did towards the simplistic details in life? He particularly took interest in the ruts of the stone steps leading to his favorite spot, or how the wind made slight breezes to move the hairs on his arm when a gust went through. He took much at full speed, and absorbed all he could. Not to say he didn't have a dark side.

Thanks to his parents being workers primarily in presidential safety, or the dealings of making sure President Ammadeus slept well at night, his family, the Hathaway's, found themselves stuck in the middle class. Not snobby enough to make the .05% of the first class, and not poor enough to counteract the 70% of the lower class, Iory managed to be friends with everyone on the side of the spectrum, and thus it gave him power. It created a darker side to him by that, as he had multiple opinions floating in his head and he'd often mash them all together to form one strong, vocal point.

He loved nature, hated humans. They always messed everything up, and he could have a pitiful desire to be perfect when nothing ever could be, especially if the _Homo Sapiens_ touched it. When Iory found out the scientific name for mankind, he never referred to other people as their name, but _that Homo Sapien_ , or _look at her, that idiotic Homo Sapien is killing her flowers with acid, not water_. He had little value in the emotions of others, because they were all so stupid and deserved to have nothing less.

Iory, despite having that perspective, did not find all humans to be despicable, and rather warmed up to plenty, including his family and close friends. He could have time for love, but viewed himself as demisexual, where he _had_ to know the person and become intimate with them before he'd even consider dropping into their pants. People would consider him to be mean, but he liked to choose the more sophisticated term of _assertive_. He never jumped to conclusions hastily, and often would sway in his opinion on most things. Iory, however, couldn't stand the mankind gits who thought they were so much better than everybody else, and that you all started out on an even playing field and had to work your way up that ladder to be called 'better'.

The boy sat up, frowning. " _Perhaps that's where my strong dislike comes from…_ " Iory didn't know how to lie, and if asked about it, there'd be his answer, straight up and truthful. When he was watching the 1st Hunger Games and saw how deplorable _Homo Sapiens_ acted towards other _Homo Sapiens_ , his disgust for one particular individual went through the roof.

Ryder Cole. The very first male to represent District 3 in the Hunger Games, and how he did a mighty pitiful job at doing so. Gave the whole wrong impression of his home. Not everyone acted like a stuck up snob, not everyone stabbed each other in the back (although that _did_ happen, not as frequent as Ryder made it out to be…), and in general his actions favored unfavorably on everyone back home. When he lost his head over Ellen dying, the boy had trash talked her a few days before, as admitted in Ellen's interview with Louis Grande, to then lose his absolute sanity over someone he knew he didn't like. Joining the Careers, to once again get back at a group of people who did nothing to him, then abandoning them like a pollen spore from a dandelion to the wind. Showed cowardice above all else, how he truly had no intention of staying. Joining the so called 'enemy', where he faced Jake Quipp eye-to-eye and cockily grinned while moving one hand to the knife at his waist… how despicable. If you hated someone and wanted them dead, say it to their face.

Iory would have. He _knows_ he would have, and would do if given the chance.

Then the entire pity me, pity me speech he had given to Mako Narcis and Nydia Jones moments before he died. To win over Panem's hearts when they all knew what a lying scumbag he truly was. All the things that ran through Iory's head on a day to day basis. He couldn't help but smirk when the dark haired boy had received a sword through the chest in betrayal, the very act Ryder himself had hoped to commit then got flipped to rear its ugly head in. Iory recalled laughing himself to sleep that night because of it.

It wasn't to say Iory was insane or anything, but he just didn't care for those he didn't like and you had to be pretty shitty if he didn't like you. Plain and simple, lock everything up and throw away the key.

The fifteen year old rested his head back down against the grass. A… strange thought, to say the least, entered his head. "If I am to be selected to go into these Hunger Games, will I react the same way Ryder Cole will?"

Iory sat up, just after immediately laying his head down, in a reverse and backwards movement. He frowned. He truly didn't have an answer to that. He wanted to say absolutely not, I'll be faithful to those I care about. Then again… would he like anyone he came into contact with? Besides his district partner, there'd be no one he'd like, no one that'd matter to him. Did that justify slamming a sword into their throat and ripping out their intestines? Iory didn't think so.

He rubbed his temples, a commonplace action the boy did whenever he felt stressed and couldn't come to a logical, unbiased answer. Half of him wanted to resort to ethos and care, while the other part said, _remember what you constantly say, those you don't like can die, just like Ryder Cole!_ Would he be any better than the evil men that ruled Panem?

Iory didn't think the hill felt so comforting anymore after that. He stood up, cracking his back, once again looking over the scenery to examine District 3, his rightful home, a place of nurturing warmth. He snorted. Hah, as if. Humans… all deserved to die…

The boy blinked. Did his mind flip that easily? A gust of wind blew through the vicinity, and Iory hugged his sides tight. He wasn't liking the view that much any longer, his so called safe haven turning into a fresh hell.

He began to back up from his normal spot of relaxation before breaking into a quick run, yelling and shouting all the way as he ran back into town.

"I'm a monster! I'm a monster!" he howled.

Iory lived a lie. Believed one thing that came flying out of his mouth, then shut up and cursed everything in his head. How could someone live like that? Win a Hunger Games no less? Bullshit. The brown haired male stopped when his shoes hit the gravel, the comforting stone step pathways causing his run to slow to a jog, then to walking speed, and before stopping against the side of the nearest building.

He had started to sweat, something Iory rarely did. He wiped off the glistening liquid from his brow, starting to dislike the true intent of nature. His mind did an entire run around full circle while spending an appeasing afternoon on the hill. Iory bent over to take a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling with ease.

"Never again… never again do I go back up there when I am acting _normal_ , as it doesn't even exist in me. I'm a damn paradox, something that should be locked up in a cage with all the other animals that deserve to be there. I'm no greater than Ammadeus Snow, than Ryder Cole, than the homeless man who speaks eighteen different languages who parks himself five feet from my front door every Tuesday morning to hear the sparrows sing. If I hate my own people that much… what does that say about me?"

Iory shuddered again. That wasn't a question he, or anyone else needed to answer for him.

* * *

 **Fallon Lewis: District 3 Female P.O.V (** _ **17**_ **)**

* * *

On days like those where she was nervous, seventeen year old Fallon Lewis let her sister do her hair for her while sitting on the front porch of their rickety house sitting uncomfortably on a slope built unevenly, and definitely not made for a place of dwelling.

The girl hummed softly to herself while her sister, Maisie, who was thirteen, worked quickly and effortlessly at braiding and combing through the tangled knots. The older sibling had just gotten out of bed after all, despite it being late in the afternoon, almost close to dinner time at 6 P.M. Fallon's gloriously bright fox red hair hued a radiant amber in the waning rays of the sun from above. Fallon decided to stay in slumber for such a long time because, on days like Reaping Day, she was nervous and didn't want to spend many of her hours tirelessly doing nothing and thinking about some impending doom on the way up.

Maisie, who had vibrant and bright halcyon curls for hair wrinkled her nose at another colony of knots. "Fallon, did you roll in weeds before you got up? There are so many tangles, that solving how to fix the accelerator on President Ammadeus's car would be easier than this."

Fallon rolled her eyes. She loved her sister, don't get her wrong, but Panem bless her when that mouth opened up and another snarky comment like that came out, the older girl resisted every urge tingling from every pore to punch the loved one straight in the larynx. She made a tight smirk. "And how would know how to solve the accelerator on President Ammadeus's car anyways? You don't even know what one looks like. Besides, he drives a limousine, takes the train, flies, or simply walks whenever he has a destination he needs to be at."

The blonde threw her hands up in the air. "Do you want me to continue doing your hair or not?"

"Fine, but don't act all high and mighty when this is all said and done."

"Why? Is there something I'm not getting," Maisie shot back. "Or are you too embarrassed to admit you were lazy and wanted attention?"

Fallon decided not to comment. No need in getting in an argument over sleeping schedules and hair appearances. What mattered were the games. How someone's life could be gone in seconds. There was no reaping last year, the kids had been taken at random and in the middle of the night with pallid letters tacked to their doors in the morning on why their children were gone. Ellen Dosse lived down the street from her, and while she never spoke to the now deceased pallid haired girl, the sight of knowing she once existed hurt more. Maisie and Fallon both were viable in this reaping to be selected, and if her own sister had to be thrown into a ring full of cruel adversaries with a boy she didn't even know… Fallon wouldn't even hesitate to throw that hand in the air and scream the infamous words, _I volunteer!_

She had no selflessness in her to deny she wouldn't be good at training, constantly lugging and wielding a torch to meld pieces and parts to together for technological shipments in the next hour of being given the assignment, plus how quick on her feet she could be. Fallon would like to tell herself she could survive if given the chance, and she wouldn't be afraid to voice that if the time came. All she had to do was survive one more year after this dreadful evening was over. Maisie had five more to take on.

Fallon cleared her throat. "Hey, sis…"

"What?" Maisie asked.

"Do you want to talk about the reaping?"

"Why on Earth would you want to discuss that?"

"Last minute jitters I suppose," she said, actually somewhat confused on why she would do something so stupid. "To get everything uneasy out of my system, I guess. And yours too, as you know we're both thinking the same thing. Only reason I asked you to do my hair is so I could detract your mind from the Games."

Maisie placed an expression of complete confusion on her face. Hands left Fallon's hair, a ghost of a presence replacing the tender fingers that were once there. "If you did this to make me not think about, you're even worse than I thought _for_ just bringing this up now."

Fallon shrugged. "At face value it may not work, but…" she turned to stare at her sister, emerald eyes locking together with emerald eyes to show a bond only siblings had together. "Sitting here having you work at my hair made me realize, if we ran from talking about it, when it comes time to stand in that square shortly, it'll be brought up and we spent the entire afternoon banishing it from our thoughts. It's a coward's way out, and I want it out of the way."

The blonde shrugged. "I suppose you make sense. Away you go, sis."

She took a deep breath, unsure of why this even bothered her in the first place. " _Confidence, I've got to think confidence otherwise I'll get nowhere_ ," Fallon coached herself in her head. She licked her lips. "If I was to be picked, would you volunteer for me?"

Maisie bit back her tongue, almost saying no as the question didn't fully register in her head. "Absolutely. Do you mistake me for some type of heartless bitch?"

Fallon let the curse word slide. In the Lewis family, it was known to all that they said their minds, and should expletive language be used, so be it. "Not what I was getting at… but sure. And no, I don't."

"Should I expect the same from you?" her sister interrupted her, before the redhead could input another word.

"Are you-"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am. You have the knowledge that your sister will volunteer for you if the occasion arises, which we pray to all things holy that it doesn't, do I get the same assurance?" Maisie had crossed her arms over her shoulder, no going back now.

Fallon bit her lip hard, hard enough to draw blood. Her right eye twitched slightly, something about how the droplet fell against the porch and splattered gave her a strange form of uneasiness and the chills to creep down her back. "You do; you can have that reassurance."

Maisie nodded. "That's what I like to hear, amazing job being truthful sister."

She opened her mouth to speak another line when a loud bell sound reverberated throughout the area, coming from the Justice Building. Only meant one thing. Reaping time. The older Lewis sibling's face darkened visibly, causing the younger to shudder slightly. "It's here in District 3 where our fates shall be decided."

The blonde quirked a smile, getting the reference of Fallon quoting an old time fiction legend that she managed to pick up at the local library, _J. R. R. Tolkien's, Lord of the Rings: Return of the King_. Powerful novel, one of the best in the genre of good versus evil, and how it prevailed despite suffering many hardships.

Fallon held onto Maisie's hand as they walked to town square. Her sister was old enough to walk alone, but she couldn't risk the fact that they could ultimately have all they lived for shattered in one explicable moment when Cranston Ervack walked on that stage and pronounced their untimely death by the cause of the Reaping.

Her mind wandered back to the quote. Why did she say something so amorous at a time like this, where everything needed to be serious? Sure… the connotation made perfect sense, but did the general fact that it came from fiction and not some real life person matter? Fallon, for some reason, found this very taxing. She couldn't stop thinking about how she couldn't be serious even in the most uptight, firm section of her seventeen years on Earth.

She squeezed Maisie's hand, taking another quote. "Whatever happens, stay with me."

"I don't know if that'll be possible," the younger girl replied back grimly, when the two had reached the square. "One can only hope fate and probability haven't worked together and against each other this time around."

Both girls stood stock still in the center of town square, noticing the boys and girls around them that had started to group together, while waiting for the reaping to begin. Each had a stone of worry and a stone of optimism placed in their hearts, where they cycled back and forth between the two. The little angel and the little devil sat on Fallon's shoulder, whispering commands.

" _Let go of your sister's hand, it won't hurt, at least not after the next five years. NO! Hug her, keep her tight. Let her die in that arena! Never lose sight of Maisie Lewis, or so help me to Ammadeus's underwear I'll-_ "

"Shut up!" Fallon growled.

Maisie blinked. "Something the matter sis?"

The redhead shook her head, realizing she had spoken aloud, and there were a few sideways glances being tossed her way. "S- sorry. Arguing with the demons plaguing me inside my head. You?"

"Never letting go of your hand." the younger Lewis girl replied heartily, smiling big.

The doors to the Justice Building ripped open with a yell and wild pull of the handles, and out hopped the victor of the 1st Hunger Games, Cranston Ervack, in his seventeen year old glory. Fallon frowned. She happened to be the same age as him. Was she like him? Was he like her? She wanted to ask him that question.

The victor's bright emerald eyes, a commonality she noticed among many in Three, took center stage, such as his gaping smile. Was Cranston Ervack on some form of medication? He seemed to be the only one showing glee and happiness in a world full of depression and civil matters such as death and betrayal.

"Good evening District 3! If we haven't had the chance to be acquainted yet, my name is Cranston Ervack, the victor of last year's Hunger Games." he howled into the microphone.

Maisie frowned. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"He took some marijuana from District 9?" Fallon smirked back.

"Exactly."

"As you all know," Cranston was rambling on the stage, "It is time for District 3 to see which of their lovely children will be sent off into the Hunger Games and more than likely die a horrible, painful death. Ryder was amazing and all guys, but he died in the worst way possible. Don't be like him, whoever gets his spot. Just… just please."

A murmur echoed through the crowd. _Is he insane? Did Cranston Ervack hit his head really, really, really hard on the way out here?_ "I'd rather go back to doing your hair." Maisie groaned to herself.

"I'm going to skip all proceedings and go straight to selecting the young female who'll be representing District 3! Get ready, young ladies," shouted the male victor into the microphone. That was when Fallon had noticed the two large bowls that had suddenly appeared on stage, filled to the inexplicable brim with white slips of paper and fancy ink manuscript dotting out the names of every poor female and male placed in the reaping. Cranston dug his hand into the bowl and retrieved a paper. He went back to the microphone. "And the female is…" he began.

" _Don't make my promise come true… please, oh please…_ " Fallon begged to herself in her head back on the ground.

"Maisie Lewis!" Cranston shouted.

The two girls locked eyes, the siblings and their hearts shattering in two. Emerald eyes widened and the words spewed out before she could help herself. "I volunteer!" Fallon screamed over the noisiness of the crowd that had recognized the name that had been called.

The victor peered from his spot on stage. "Well, lassie, come on out then."

Threatening to spill tears down her cheeks, Fallon squeezed her sister's hand once before walking up to the stage. Her heart hammered in her chest, quick pounds and booms killing her with each and every step. Maisie was screaming, screaming her name, but Fallon dared not look back, dare not tempt the waters to cause her to break down. An out of his head Cranston had selected the male tribute while she made her way to the stage, a Mr. Iory Hathaway.

Fallon made an attempt at looking interested, seeing a male with shockingly illuminating iridescent eyes and oak hair, a rather canonical look-alike to the victor on stage. She didn't care. She didn't give a shit about who would be her partner. Only one thought flooded her mind.

" _I've failed my sister. I've failed her_." Fallon thought bitterly to herself, before bursting into tears, collapsing into a huddle of hair and clothing on stage.

The road to winning any year of the Hunger Games would be long and arduous for her, she could already tell.

* * *

 **There we are guys! Damn… another chapter out. I know it isn't 5K, and I'm sorry that I fell just under the mark, but I'm happy to have this one out as it is. So… that was #10: Short Circuit Bloodlust. This entire title doesn't refer to just one tribute, but Short Circuit refers to one and Bloodlust refers to another… who do you think? Did you also get the reference I made to Luna from District 6 with Iory's P.O.V? If not, go read it again to see where. Now, the news! I am doing another, yes** ** _another_** **, reaping chapter for Death Under the Sky on Sunday, in two days, perhaps around the same time, more than likely earlier in the evening. Reason behind it is to make up for the times I've pushed it back. Secondly, instead of doing another SYOT for 2017, I've settled on doing a fanfiction going over my take on the Dark Days. Sure, we have our canon and we all know how it ends, but how many of these stories actually write about this as a whole story in full? It'll be a prequel to Capitol's Strike, which I think you'll all appreciate.**

 **I did the random number generator for the chapter on Sunday, and with only three districts left, being 8, 9, and 11, we've got District 9, meaning we're going to the grain and field lovers, the same home where Rye Henderson and Eve Gladius reside (remember them?). I'm super excited, we only have three more reapings to go, and then we'll be at the games themselves and all the stuff that's fun to write (don't get me wrong here, though…), and damn, it'll be good. So, please review, let me know what you thought! And be prepared for the quick update on Sunday, be ready for it. Love you all! Have an amazing day! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	13. Chapter 11: Stale Rations, Broken Hearts

**Hey everybody, Paradigm of Writing here with a new chapter of Death Under the Sky like I promised, #11: Stale Rations, Broken Hearts or... just Stale Rations if I can't finish the second half of the title due to character word limit for chapter titles (except its perfectly okay for story titles... okay fanfiction, way to never make sense lol.) So here we are with the D9 reaping, where today we are going to be greeted by Nerida Callis and Banh Agnes submitted by xQueen-of-Applesx and bladewielder05, and we'll get to see how they compare to well... two of the four MVP's of Capitol's Strike, Rye and Eve. So uh-oh, hopefully I can pull it off, right? Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Nerida Callis: District 9 Female P.O.V ( _15_ )**

* * *

Thin and nimble fingers work across the bookshelf of the monstrous bookcase cramped in the back of the mansion her family lived in. Fifteen year-old Nerida Callis scanned over the plethora of book spine colors, sharp cardinals and vicious onyxs, glittering emeralds, and iridescent halcyons. Reaping wouldn't start till another four hours, and all she wanted to do was take a good book and read it to be swept away in a world of fantasy, while doom ticked and tocked light years away. Her dark chestnut hair sat in a fishtail braid against her right shoulder as she slowly climbed down from the ladder with her new prime read stuck in her hands.

In a glossy sunburst paint, the title of the book read _Prince of Agrarian Tides_. Such a strange name for a book, but when it came to Capitol writers, what could you expect? The library seemed a tad too bit cold for her taste, and luckily her father before leaving to attend to the district had lit the fireplace over in the corner. Nerida pulled up a chair and opened the novel to sit by the warm blaze. It acted very well as an accompaniment to the fantasy breaching her mind, switching reality and make believe in a flash.

The Callis family, like the Ervacks, which she knew fairly well, were off fairly good. Her father, Brody Callis, managed to snag during the Dark Days the mayor position of District 9. After Cranston revealed in the games last year that his father Herschel had the prestigious job as mayor of District 8, a memory linked together of how she recognized him, the two saw and greeted each other whenever their dads had gone on Capitol business trips. His light shade of oak hair, his gentle emerald eyes and filling laughter... how she became crushed when he turned out to be gay. Though there were brownie points for him falling in love with their own Rye Henderson, she couldn't believe their little relationship they had created over five years of friendship shattered with one simple kiss between two men miles away from the comfort of her arms.

Nerida scowled. "I love him, but hate him all the same." She couldn't believe her father's words when he had said Cranston Ervack would act as the person reaping the children from Nine, that she hadn't seen him in a year and knew how much he had hurt her. What she would do just to volunteer so he could see that she'd be entering his life once more to make it hell.

Then there became the small, but in actuality huge matter of Cranston Ervack releasing to the public that he turned out to be dating Caelan Escorath, the Head Interviewer and Master of Ceremonies. Quite the drop in her stomach, and Nerida had her insides twist and turn at the very mention of his name. To stare at those eyes in the immediate future and _not_ want to scratch his eyes out, shoot him in the face, hug him, kiss him, or all four and then be thrown in some insane asylum. She could escape the threat of the games with that action, though, which she had mused over and over again in her head during breakfast; oranges did provide great brain fuel after all.

She read more of the book, wanting to banish the victor from her thoughts. The main character in Prince of Agrarian Tides, a girl who cross dressed as a prince to win her crush's heart by acting like a male, resembled her in every nook and cranny. Crafty, came across as weak, jealous and passionate... described her to a T. Nerida grinned. Would dressing up like a boy help win Cranston's heart? She could fool him, make him drop that stupid interviewer, the older man would crash and burn on the front of Capitol's doorsteps with a bullet between his eyes...

Nerida rolled her eyes. " _There I go again... making foolish thoughts. Fantasies are too extravagant nowadays_."

A knock on the door leading to the library brought the girl up from her read, and she scowled. "Door is open." she called.

It opened, and instead of an Avox like she expected, the burly figure of her father Brody took up the frame. She raised an eyebrow. Didn't he remember that between 4 to 7 P.M. it was her reading time? Or like a majority of the men she ran into did they forget? "Hey, darling." her father spoke, stepping into the library and closing the door behind him.

"Dad..." Nerida wined.

"You're too old to be crowing and mooring about, Nellie, no need for that." Brody said, casting his daughter a sideways glance.

She crumpled back into her seat. "I've told you countless times..."

"I know what you've told me, Nell, but it doesn't work like that. I'm an important man to this district and me getting told what to do by my own girlie in the security of my home, it's shocking and needs to be addressed."

"Can I at least ask what you came in here for?"

"I need a book, what else?" Brody scratched his head, bright chocolate eyes scanning over piles and piles of hardcover books.

"Which one? I've memorized the entire library back and forth, all four thousand books." Nerida said proudly.

"A book called _War and Peace_ , I bought it for your birthday last year. Thought it was in your room, but then I realized we have the largest library in the district. Nowhere else it could be." the mayor mused.

"Top shelf of the fifth case by the window." she mumbled, glancing down back at her book.

Brody smiled, ruffling his daughter's hair before making his way to the said case. "I can't believe we have this many novels..."

"I've read roughly eighty percent of them," Nerida mentioned aloud, but moreso to herself, not caring who heard her. "I keep on coming back to this one that I'm reading, however." She showed Brody the cover.

He rubbed his chin. "Prince of Agrarian Tides, huh? I've never read it. Mind lending it to me tomorrow?"

"I can have it read by then." she agreed.

Brody went to the door, wrenching it back open. "I love you sweetheart."

"Love you too dad," Nerida smiled. She paused, her tongue brushing over the bottom lip of her mouth. "Hey, dad?"

"Yes?"

"What do you need the book for?"

"Oh... a colleague of mine wanted to discuss a few things about military strategy. I learned recently that Districts 1, 2, and 4 have established training academies for their tributes with that Career alliance last year, and we thought about doing something like that. We have to get permission from President Ammadeus beforehand, but it's an open air suggestion." Brody explained.

"Oh." Nerida made a face.

She expected him to continue on walking, to head back to work, but her father had stopped in the doorway and turned to face the chair. "Nellie, I want to talk about something real quick?"

The fifteen year old paused once more. "About...?"

"Our reaping." the mayor breathed.

"And?"

"When it is time for the reaping to begin, I want you by my side, not down in the crowd. Your name will still be in the bowl in all fairness, but I am not having you down with the rest of the district. Don't need to be insulted or made fun of, or for people to jeer at you with 'privileged scum' and other things in the like. Do note you aren't invincible... but you'll stay by my side while Cranston works."

At the mention of the victor's name, Nerida's face blanched, and she quickly slammed the book. "Oh- okay. Will do."

"Have a good time reading, Nell. Reaping starts promptly at 7:30, right before sundown."

"Understood." she nodded.

The door shut, and Nerida paused a few moments before unleashing a scream. " _Shit! You've got to be kidding me! I seriously have to be five inches away from that fag bastard? You're shitting on me, right dad? This is ludicrous_."

She threw her book across the room, misunderstanding her trajectory and arm strength as the book flew and flied... straight into the _fireplace_. Nerida let out another scream, this time out of fright as glowing embers clashed with the paper of her hardback. She leaped from the chair, jumping for the poker. Shit! Oh... Brody was going to kill her.

Nerida wrenched open the enclosed halcyon gate that kept back the fire, her throw magically having the book levitate above the barrier so perfectly that it chipped the metal structure to topple into the flames. Her eyes wanted to burst with fragile tears, a pressure surmounting above her chest and pushing down. Shoving the poker into the fire, she managed to ration half of the book, _Prince of Agrarian Tides_ now a half burned / half written mess of ink, cinders, and scraps of paper. Ruined. And perhaps she'd never get another one or be allowed back in the library because of this.

All Cranston Ervack's fault. That son of a bitch!

The fifteen year old seldom got angry, but the boy who stole her heart, crushed it, and now ruined her favorite book in all of Panem managed to do that without even being in the room and speaking direct words to her. But they did the effect perfectly and crushed all she worked for. Those bitter syllables stabbed at her heart, nipping it and driving drills through the core of her very soul, bleeding and anguishing all over the carpet.

Nerida vaulted the poker across the room, seeing that the projectile slammed into the beautiful portrait of her father above his favorite bookcase. She groaned to herself, face planting into the carpet again. Dammit! Her day seemed to be going terribly the moment Brody had entered the library. Each bit of news ruined pieces that formed a grand puzzle. What was next? Getting reaped or being forced to volunteer?

She didn't want to think of that. Not in the place of misfortune. In the matter of ten minutes her most valued and loved place in the entire mansion became her least loved and most hated room in all of Panem. No, scratch that. Even the globe. Rugged oak walls, blazing fires, musty and smelly old books, boots clogging on the carpet... that described the library, the world where she came from.

Defeated, Nerida rose to her feet. Eyes glanced over the fire, a coursing rage surmounting and exploding over like Mt. Vesuvius. She let out an enraged yell, before grabbing the rose flower in a vase on the table by the fireplace. She emptied the contents of the entire pitcher on the fire, smoldering the orange and cardinal blaze. The rose fell into the fire after that, singed slightly as some licks of the flame existed, and she watched as the stem eroded and began to be eaten away from smoky brick tendrils. The flower died in seconds. Nerida slammed the vase to the floor, shards of porcelain and glass flying over the carpet.

Why did that emerald eyed boy hurt her so much? Did she ever love him? Perhaps not... for to be in love with someone, no matter what happened, you cared for them and stayed focused on the rocking body in front of the dance floor... or you focused on keeping firm lips pressed together and never ceasing the lip lock to breathe. Cranston Ervack had a new enemy.

Bottom line, even though he was a victor, he still acted as son of the District 8 mayor and would be required to go on meetings. She'd run into him and make his life a living torture chamber, that he want to leap back into that arena and let his arrow miss the pissed off Jake Quipp. She'd wipe the arrogant smirk she so long lusted over, and there'd be a finite line to cross, where the story of Cranston Ervack would meet an untimely demise.

What would work? The shard of glass by her feet which had cut her ankle? The poker embedded into the wall? Toxins? Simple crushing of his throat seemed ideal too... dammit, so many options to mull over and choose from!

She'd go to her grave and swear she wasn't insane. Just passionate.

Nerida hugged her sides tight in the midst of the broad chaos of the library, where comforting words backslapped her.

" _Now what?_ " she thought angrily.

Perhaps there'd be another book on a different shelf to cater to her fancy. Doubted that. _Prince of Agrarian Tides_ acted as the best novel ever, now collapsed in a pile of black ashes as dark as Nerida's heart on the carpeted floor. Her dad did mention _War and Peace_ , quite the hefty book to skim through. War strategies, a large accumulation of accounts of battle, great pieces composed to make an intricate tale of truth and flipside reverse psychology... Brody did find it to be an odd request at her young age.

But... the next day, it appeared wrapped in a bow from President Ammadeus himself, a fancy manuscript note commending her on the passionate read. How he desired to have her thirst for reading such monstrous literature. She could reach for the stars, matching aspirations to dreams and goals that would push her beyond the wildest of beliefs.

She had a belief that Cranston Ervack would sometimes be that wrapped up gift in her dreams... now she loathed it.

"All make believe... Ammadeus's kindness, the fact a dream boy would smack dab appear on my doorstep. As if." Nerida muttered.

The fifteen year old checked the clock on the far wall of the library. Three hours and six minutes till the green eyed disease appeared on her doorstep, where her district would constantly be compared to the old ones that walked before them. Eve Gladius and Rye Henderson. How could you possibly meet their expectations?

Nerida was a good girl, smart, brave, and very defensive. When matched up to the male victor from Eight, would she rise or fall to the occasion. In a happy, backwards thought, the mayor's daughter knew she'd rise so high, Cranston would die by getting so dizzy looking up.

That was a plan she intended to pursue.

Mark her words.

* * *

 **Banh Agnes: District 9 Male P.O.V ( _13_ )**

* * *

Surprised faces is all Banh met whenever he walked through the district. People became accustomed to seeing normal kids with chipper smiles, bright and alert eyes, dancing gestures of their hands... not him. Skinny, but buff at the shoulders, dark swooping hair, dark cerulean eyes, a slight scowl, and a right hand with only three fingers. Many found the first five details to be bothersome, and then when noticing his hand... they ran in the other direction.

The boy currently was spending his time kicking pebbles in the town square of District 9, waiting for the reaping to start quarter to seven. Banh, despite his numerous glaring faults, when he brushed the occasional smile across his pale and faint lips, he looked quite attractive, when females and males alike would then trail after him, slightly freaked out by his hand, but then looked past the guise, saw him for a beautiful creature that meshed out of the grain, a male Demeter, the counterpart to the goddess of the harvest.

He lost his right ring and pinkie finger at the age of nine, accidently slicing it off with a scythe his father had left in the fields out by their house. As a younger boy, he had always been instructed to stay away from the farm equipment, it was dangerous and killed a many people in its day. Banh didn't care, he wanted to be adventurous and prove everyone wrong that someone so youthful good claim adult work and do it just as well. Didn't end that way. The scythe had been so heavy, and Banh's grip had been so weak, he dropped the scythe, but aimed to catch it, the blade catching his right hand and severing off two very important digits.

Banh had screamed, he shrieked and cried in a ball in the fields while his parents and other important people of District 9 tended to him. Ripe crimson streaks ran muddy brown soil through the flora, fauna running at the sight of such human taint marking and destroying their gorgeous landscape. Four years later, he had a perfectly functioning left hand and absolute no reason to use his right hand. Ammadeus Snow, as a young president, offered amputation of the arm, for this was before the Dark Days truly went into full effect, and the Agnes family refused such a kindness on behalf of the worst people in Panem. Who could blame them?

His state of appearance left going up to people and introducing himself much to be desired, as he'd sweat so much and get the jitters and presumably piss in his pants before saying sorry and racing off. Socializing wasn't exactly a hobby of his, but definitely acting as a recluse which shined in prime light on an invisible list of his favorite things to do. Banh hated being the center of attention, and sometimes at gathering where he had been required to go, attention would slowly drift from the topic to his hand, and the question would come flying at him from three hundred million billion people in the room. Voices could warp together in unruly shouts, causing the boy to curl up back into that familiar ball and he wanted to cry, he sometimes _would_ cry because of it.

As the all knowing parents, there were days when Banh's mother and father knew not to engage with him. He'd stuff all the emotions inside of him and take a walk in the fields to think about the past, present, and future. How he wanted to be the solar sun in the sky and be alone, but give happiness to all. He'd be alright with that. Up in the sky, the sun wouldn't be able to hear the criticisms _or_ praises thrown at it, and that's how Banh acted in the district. He really, deep down in the pit of his stomach, didn't care what others thought. All he cared for and expected to be hurt at was when his parents passed down compliments or complaints. There weren't many things to be proud of in District 9 besides grain, the harvest, the sun, and your lucky lover, but Banh could be superbly confident in his parents, and he loved them so much, he'd do anything for them. Too bad they were both working and couldn't be with him at the first reaping.

Speaking of which, he eyed the first people crossing the town square threshold into the heart of District 9, all walking in like zombies from a graveyard, or soldiers filing in for rank. "There's as much joy in them as there is in a pallid piece of paper." he snorted.

Banh noticed a few eyes flicker to him, as if they're gazes said _Look at how disgusting he is. Deserves to die_. He hoped in his intestines no one would come over and talk to him. He hated conflict, always trying to dispel them before anything too disastrous happened where he couldn't run away, or solve things. The thirteen year old often made them a whole lot worse, actually. Despite that, he could often be very stubborn if he somehow in the good graces of God got dragged into things. If any of his beliefs were to be criticized without good reasoning, the boy could defend and fight back without fail.

If he was to be locked in an arena doing so however... Banh would rather die on the train ride. He loathed the Hunger Games, it horrified him to the ends of the Earth. Watching those silver screened monitors in the district to see Rye Henderson, who looked ghastly similar to him, same age, same build, same _hair color_ , it came as to no surprise Banh had vomited when Cranston had thrown the axe into their representative's chest.

He had run from the crowd, bee lining for home, shouting in fright the whole way. The boy had locked himself up in the house bathroom and refused to come out until the sun died down into a comforting solar moon, there'd be no more interacting and glancing at the Games unless he had to be dragged out of the house at gunpoint, and even then he'd fight it. Whenever Banh closed his eyes, that moment played over and over in his head. " _I watched myself die. I had watched someone kill me_..." he would think, over and over again. The reason the scene could be remembered down to the T like so was his photographic memory. Anything he'd see, he'd remember if questioned about it later, or if his mind would want to torture him further along the line of his years in age.

Banh looked down at his outfit, noticing that the square had clustered up even more and they all looked as if they had been dressed properly for a train ride all the way to the Capitol. His simple weed shirt and dusty slacks wouldn't cut it, not in the crowd and on that stage. He scoffed, noticing a single stitch near his sandaled feet undone. His mind immediately went to patch it up. He didn't know how to lie, his mind and soul worked to perfect itself, naturally as Banh had the attributes of a perfectionist.

All the miniscule details, the one hair out of tweak, that sharp note not hit too well in chorus, the one weed taller than all the others in that batch of barley... a wooden plank out of proportion. Hell, if Banh could fix the clouds in the sky, he would. Everything irritated him, and when the problem wasn't corrected the next time he saw it, due to that photographic memory, he'd probably rip his hair out in public. Given... well, again, being a perfectionist, even towards work not of his own.

"Hey... kid, are you going to stop looking at your damn pants and join the kids grouped in the middle of the square? We all put our loved ones in the gambling ring, so you need to get your ass in there too!" snarled an adult who had let go of his daughter's hand reluctantly, and then turned to see Banh standing around in the back of the square, glaring at the patch unraveled on his pants.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Banh hissed back.

The man's face turned bright purple. "Talk back to me one more time, sonny. I don't give a flying shit that I'm not your daddy, but you disrespect me one more time and I'm gonna-"

"Okay! Will listen! Can do!" the boy yelped, racing by the enraged fellow and quickly diving into the blended mesh of twelve to eighteen year olds of District 9. Again, his fear and hatred for conflict came rising up the moment an ass beating had been mentioned. Banh knew how to fight, but no way in hell would he dare try and take on a grown adult who had already been pissed off worse than a weed that didn't die to weed killer.

After the crowd had settled down, and 7 P.M. rolled around, the youth of District 9 stared emptily at the stage, where two stools sat on opposite sides of a sleek microphone. Banh's perfectionist in him rose and he wanted to cry an indignant shout from the disarray at the bowls that held the names of every child that could be seen in the large crowd.

The doors to the Justice Building opened wide, and out walked two individuals, followed by a singular one behind them. A low murmur went through the crowd as the town mayor, Brody Callis, and his daughter Nerida sat on chairs behind the large bowl on stage right, or from their perspective, stage left. They weren't exactly popular, or at least _she_ wasn't. Everyone knew of her adulterated crush on victor Cranston Ervack, and how mightily insane that made her when the boy had been taken by one of the finest Capitol men alive.

Everyone knew Nerida, even if they didn't know her personally, they knew _of_ her. And speaking of the red horned devil cheeky bastard himself, Cranston Ervack had been the soul to walk up behind the mayor and his daughter. Another murmur, as everyone knew District 9 meant something to him, great allies and enemies in Cranston's heart. Eve, a great ally, proved to be Rye's downfall as the boy had killed her out of sacrifice for the rest of his friends. The guilt built up over in him and down the male from nine went a few days later.

Banh swallowed the fear he didn't know he had been holding. Cranston's emerald eyes flickered in the darkening sky of District 9, and he had a radiant smile. The victor felt like he was home, in the second place where he belonged. Eyes scanned the crowd, and many alerts rose in his head at dark hair, blue eyed males that reminded him so much of the first boyfriend at such a young age. Banh noticed Nerida's eyes bearing into Cranston's back, an incriminating glare. Mayor children did know each other, but how far did their history and contempt go back? She looked as if she wanted to rip the new arrival's face off.

Cranston tapped the microphone, beginning his soliloquy. "Greetings District 9. If we haven't had the chance to be introduced to each other yet, I am Cranston Ervack, victor of the 1st Hunger Games. It is no stranger to you all that this district holds a special place in my heart. My- my very first boyfriend came from the same crowd of gentleman I'll be reaping today... and one of the most compelling ladies I'll ever know shall be drawn forth from the same pool of girls... you all mean so much to me."

Everyone watched as tears streamed down his face, and he still kept that kempt smile, never faltering. The victor sniffled, wiping away some snot that had started to trail down his nose. Banh's heart sank. " _He needs a hug._ "

The emerald eyed male blinked, biting back tears. "You all know how this is done. I have a bowl on my right filled with female names between the ages of twelve to eighteen years old, and to my left, male names between the ages of twelve to eighteen years old. I shall draw from the ladies bowl as customary. Anyone in the female quarter can volunteer for this young woman if you so desire to," he said before walking to the female bowl. The male took in a drawing breath, sucking up dry air and exhaling out worry. He dug in and pulled one strand, making Banh's eyes go wild, his heart to fix everything to rise through the roof. Cranston went back to the microphone, unrolled the paper, and read, "Nerida Callis."

He stopped, orbs widening as his head swiveled to the girl behind him, the mayor's daughter having a look of pure terror plastered on her face. Brody screamed, shouting at the victor to pick someone else. "Not my daughter, you bastard! I'll wring your neck Ervack!" he shouted. Cranston braced himself for a hit, but Nerida had already shoved her father inside the Justice Building, locking it.

"Fine! I'll do it," she said loudly to the crowd, matching the victor's eye level, her own slitting and glaring at Cranston. "Not as if I have a choice." No one dared utter a peep to volunteer for her.

Cranston looked at the piece of paper that had read her name and he crumpled it up, throwing it to the wind. He licked his lips, looking hopelessly lost. "Umm... okay. Now the gentlemen."

He made his way over to the bowl, but not before Nerida made a sharp tongue comment. "Perhaps the male representative should be you, Mr. Hot Shot."

The victor ignored her, digging into the male bowl. Back he went, and then read, "Banh Agnes."

Down in the crowd, Banh froze. He looked at the stage, eyes widening like Nerida's. The victor and him locked eyes, and a twinkle of sadness flickered by in Cranston's eyes, the face recognizing a familiarity in them before he solemnly looked down at his hands. A few people in the crowd muttered to themselves about how it was freak hands boy being picked. Glad to get rid of District 9 trash, the Hunger Games was the best method to utilize for this very practice.

Someone prodded Banh in the back, and he slowly inched forward to the stage, footsteps echoing dully against the concrete as his heartbeat drowned out all else inside his mind, thuds and hammering strokes hurting. He climbed up the left side of the stage, and not the right as Nerida had taken his spot instead. Cranston met him, locking hands.

Emerald eyes flickered over the boy. "I'm sorry Rye..." he said.

The victor shook his head. Banh made a face. "Excuse me?"

Cranston hung his head low. "I- I'm sorry. You just... you look so _much_ like him and I-"

"I get it," the younger male whispered. "I'm sorry to."

Both males smiled warmly at each other before noticing the bearing stare from District 9, and none other than Nerida Callis.

She glared at Cranston, before speaking, "Fuck you Cranston Ervack."

* * *

 **Okay, I am so sorry about that swear, but you know what, Nerida, as a complete bitch and total off the rocker girl, she can be permitted a swear word like that in a T rated story, given kids our age use language like that to disrespect their mothers from unmade graves. So yeah... there we are guys! The District 9 reaping is complete, meaning we have two more left and I'm beyond excited, as I don't think that word covers it. I did the randomizer again, and we were down to two numbers, them being 8 and 11. With the luck of the draw, we are at District 11 next, and somehow it ended up with District 8 being last by the sheer probability of it all, but then it is for the best actually. What did you guys think of this chapter? More dynamic than the others? Worse than the others? How do Nerida and Banh stack up to everyone else, and if you read Capitol's Strike, how are they to Rye and Eve? If you like these guys better, that's perfectly okay, cause I made Rye and Eve with months of thought and these guys were thought on the fly, so it doesn't ultimately matter. So, we have our District 11 reaping next, Chapter #12: Withering, Decaying, Dying, which I'll be posting on March 12th, in six days, so keep your eyes peeled. Please review and let me know what you thought! We're getting close to pre games, and that's when the reviews will count for all the marbles! Love you all! Have an amazing day! Bye!**

 **~ Paradigm**


	14. Announcement of Hiatus

*sigh* It must've been about time, right? I can figure so... so hello everyone, it's Paradigm of Writing here with... an announcement. It's been since like March 4th or so since this story has last seen an update, and here I am being an idiot and promising a somesuch date that I've let you down on numerous occasions... and it's partly my fault... and partly yours readers.

I'll be flat out. For the longest time, probably midway through the reaping chapters I have posted... writing Death Under the Sky was not fun for me. Didn't feel any enjoyment out of it unless I truly loved the author who submitted the character. I managed to get ten districts out... slow albeit... and it's time to say that I cannot try and write any more Death Under the Sky for awhile. Yes. A hiatus.

The one word you dread. A phrase that means death for any story here. Sadly it has to happen. A lot has been happening in my life, such as a relationship change that I shall not delve into, school work being an absolute tirade, lack of inspiration for ALL my stories (not just this one), and rising and falling levels of depression by a mix and multitude of things I suppose a person like myself cannot explain.

Now, it isn't to say I haven't had any fun so far with where this piece has taken me... but I knew from the very beginning I'd hold people back, I'd let them down more often than not... and I strived to keep that from happening, enough where it broke me. It is seldom to see a Submit Your Own Tribute in the Hunger Games finished and completed, hell, even somehow manage to get past the Reaping stage. I have tried and tried and tried so hard to make them interesting, where it isn't vanilla and manila being read over and over again to the point you want to fall asleep. That's a major crutch in my reason for saying this.

Often that not, I've held my tongue. I cannot do it anymore, it's something I've noticed and have been peeved at since day one since writing this piece, and call me immature, fine, go ahead, it'll pile onto the list of things I'm already hating myself about. Reviewing. Reading this story. When you all signed up, I asked specifically that reviewing wasn't necessary, but in the end, it actually kinda is. When you sign up for an SYOT, you give me the rights to write your character, but it doesn't mean you abandon the project. When a book gets turned into movie, I bet you the author of said novel does not walk out and let the directors do whatever the hell they want. They supervise. That's what I needed. It's what I didn't get. What I didn't get the respect of.

You all (and I use the word you subjectively, not naming particular people, but you know who you are), submitted, knew the obligation. I didn't need a review per say from you (although a nice thing to do), I just wanted conformation that you have been reading the latest chapters being posted. Sometimes my breaks in posting were for that reason, to let people get caught up on the reading. Nope. If you didn't have time to review, it would've been no problem to PM me saying, "Hey, nice chapter." I'm always on here, especially checking that damn private messenger. You would've gotten a response as soon as possible and I wouldn't have let anyone hanging.

It's when I didn't get a review, nor a PM since the beginning that threw me overboard sometimes. There have been a few great reviewers, such as RookieWriter96, Ares the War God, ExodiusLK (and your twenty damn names), bladewielder05, Skydancing Dragon (who doesn't even have a DAMN tribute in this story) among a few others who reviewed and let me know as much as they could. Thanks to Flame Falcon, who seldom reviewed, at least PM'd me to say, a nice chapter, and we discussed a few details.

You signed up for this. You don't just walk away. It's like getting a job and then not getting paid for your work by the foreman. That's what this was. It never helped. For those that got to see their characters... I'm glad those that reviewed did. What hurt worse sometimes was how a few of you only reviewed or let me know you read just for the chapter your character came out of. That's a slap in the face to me and the other authors, saying you don't care enough. Or those that haven't done it at all... how am I supposed to even have a damn clue on how you're reading. Unless you truly would want me to write this entire piece without any input, I wouldn't do it. Not fair to me, nor the submitter.

Perhaps I'm being super childish about the whole thing, but it is a disservice to everyone who cares about this story. A lot of you have followed the story, that's what I've seen. Then why is there no indication to let me know it just isn't a stat I'm looking at? Makes me want to throw up. It's partly why I sure as hell am not writing a new SYOT for the Hunger Games fandom, they hardly work. I tried my hardest to let it work, and I'll still futilely fight for it... just not now. So, a hiatus. For the people of District 8 and District 11 (ha, not a single one of you reviewed... gee thanks), I am sorry despite my bitter grudge for not getting to write your tributes. Whenever this comes back (if ever actually), it'll be District 11's reaping. It also burned me when I'd see you all reviewing other SYOT's in the fandom but wouldn't be able to get to mine. Jealousy, maybe. But it still hurts nonetheless.

I have to say... I don't know why I even kept this project on. I'm not deleting it, that'd be cowardice. The words would go to waste. But for now, you will deal with this. Maybe I've pissed you all off, and that's perfectly fine, because a majority of you pissed me off. I don't write for just my enjoyment, but for the enjoyment of those who like reading my work and clearly it seems a few of you just disrespected the artist. If you knew what you had to sign up for, why sign up at all? It's logical reasoning. Can't stand the heat? Get out of the damn kitchen.

I still love you all (eh, maybe I'm bipolar towards you all), and I am still super happy you all submitted to my story... but you have to see where I'm coming from. Perhaps I'm being self-entitled (more than likely), but for now... this is it. I'll be putting a 'Complete' next to this piece to give me some closure, and when I'm not depressed, angry, confused, and other words out there to express my feelings about this story, then I'll come back. It will be after this summer, I can guarantee you that.

So... that's it for me so far. If you wish to have something to say, review or PM me. I'm here to listen, discuss, and hell, I'll debate. But wait... most of you didn't do it for this story, why would you give a flying fuck in the world about it ending? Am I right? Or am I right? That's what I thought. Have a good day. I need to let my boiling blood calm down. Have a great day everyone, thanks for most of you being awesome. *P.S- Banh Agnes by bladewielder05 was my favorite tribute of the bunch currently*

~ Paradigm


	15. Chapter 12: As the Curtain Would Fall

**Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with the last chapter of Death Under the Sky, #12: As the Curtain Would Fall. As you saw on my last update, it was a rather... angry announcement on me quitting this piece due to a lack of response, commitment, my own depression, and other things. But... thanks to coaxing from a few users like Ares the War God and Tom137, I've decided to an overview of what this story would have ended up like, among other things. It'll cover a few chapters I would have written like the train ride there, tribute parade, training, Interview Night, and of course the games. Now... I apologize for all the commotion, and I plan on making it up to you, just have to get through the rest of the chapter. Each character will have a small eulogy if I can create one about them, and of course thanks from the submitter. Enjoy. *P.s*- this'll be rather long.**

* * *

 _Train Ride to Capitol_

The train rides would be rather... unexciting for the most part. Each tribute would really spend their time to themselves, except for several pairs that would find it harder to stay apart than anything else. Luxe Beaumont and Crux Black from District 1 argued the entire way, ending in him getting a broken nose, and her having a broken finger on the right hand from an ensuing brawl. Barrett Thorn and Chasidy Griffith from District 4 also argued the whole way there, but it did end with Barrett apologizing about his rude and pristine actions, making the trip somewhat on a sour note. Tycho Brunfields and Magenta Miranda from District 5 would spend their time comforting the latter, she cried about her boyfriend's death, and Tycho, to make things better, tried drawing her a picture... which he promptly lost outside the train window. District 9's Banh Agnes and Nerida Callis had the poor boy sauntered up against a wall, listening to the mayor's daughter rant about how much she practically hated Cranston and why he needed to die. On the District 10 train, Brock Risco managed to piss Joyce Kimbell off by mentioning her dead mother, causing Joyce to lose her cool and almost _jump_ from the moving train before he stopped her.

* * *

 _Tribute Parade_

The only people genuinely interested in the parade were Luka Tayviel from District 7 and Sora Kurenai from District 12, the former as he loved the Capitol, the latter as she found a family to hold onto, despite them being... fake and indecisive. Luxe and Crux did not talk to each other the entire evening, and they had to extensive makeup and quick surgeries to repair their detachments. Luna Capricorn, native to District 6, had cussed out the entire Capitol, while Iory Hathaway of District 3 watched the girl in extensive surprise and admiration.

That evening, Joyce, to stay out of Brock's despicable sight, took to the roof of the training center. It turns out that Luka Tayviel had already occupied the roof... the two having a nice chat on what made them happy, what scared them, and they even created a friendship. Victor Cranston Ervack joined them, it turning out to be that he frequented the training center roof every night whenever he had to stay in the Capitol.

* * *

 _Training: Day 1_

Artemis Stevenson from District 2 tried all day to coax Armaus Titus to train, but the teen begrudgingly refused, despite wanting to show Barrett Thorn up for his cocky display of rather horrendous techniques. Grayson Lilanic managed to snag a few eyes in his direction at the good usage of a bow, sword, and a blow dart gun. Fallon Lewis decided to read a book in the training center instead of even opt to try and practice... she found it to be futile and useless. She'd die... why waste her time trying to learn something she couldn't even do correctly?

Connor Torye of District 6 tried to get Luxe off of his back, who heard he had been dipped into the luxury side of the world, wanting to know everything about him. He blatantly told her off in front of all the tributes, getting the Careers that bothered, mainly Artemis and Chasidy, against him, telling the boy to watch his back in the arena. The Careers had their first target. With the District 11 pair, Evan Hollander and Adie Conner, the two spent the whole day together, tying knots and trying to get better at archery. Grayson opted to help them, proposing an alliance which they shot down.

There were more signs of Luka and Joyce interacting together, and the District 10 female introduced him to her partner, and it was that moment then Luka had found the person he had always been wanting to find his life. Brock Risco. The boy had run away from the encounter, too embarrassed to even try and bring up his feelings.

* * *

 _Training: Day 2_

To get himself away from the boringness of watching Crux Black destroy the practice dummies, Iory Hathaway went to the camouflage station to already find Luna Capricorn there. The girl had gotten tired of listening to Connor rant against the Capitol... her feelings were true, she hated the place with no doubt in her mind, but didn't need someone else screaming them out at the top of their lungs.

President Ammadeus Snow and Head Gamemaker Jerald Donner decided to stop by the training center and observe the tributes. Barrett made a complete fool of himself, Chasidy wanting to crawl in a whole and die. District 8's Madder Tweed begged Jerald to kill him right then and there, he had no desire to stay there and wished to get out of there as soon as possible. His partner, Jorie Gyle, gave him an ultimatum. Die from starvation or let herself kill him in the arena at the first chance she got.

District 7's Fawn Maples surprised the other tributes with her incredible axe throwing skills, and she opted to join the Careers the moment Luxe arrived by her side at lunch to give her an offer. Sora Kurenai stuck to some of the other tributes like glue, forming a friendship with Luka, Joyce, Brock, Grayson, and Magenta... though she didn't see any of them like family, which saddened her to some degree.

* * *

 _Private Training / Scores_

Jerald would come to find that the second batch of tributes were more capable of killing each other than the batch beforehand, the tributes trumping them tenfold. Crux proved to be an absolute monster at sword fighting, spear throwing, and pure examples of strength. Luxe used the netting above the training center as her advantageous ground, using a stealth technique to slash dummies to bits. Artemis and Armaus seemed to match each other in strength, archery and close combat exclusively. Barrett only managed to snag one knife into a dummy, Chasidy being better at trident and spear work than her partner.

Tycho showed immense strength with his sword fighting skills, his smaller frame being an unorthodox image for brawling. Luna Capricorn gave no thought to fighting, except showing her memory in the toxic plant game, and then reading a poem aloud to Jerald on her opinion of the Capitol, which he gave her accolades for, she went against all else to become one of the first tribute rebels ever. Fawn Maples proved to be a mix of Birch Lido and Rose Blersa from the 1st Hunger Games in dexterity and strength with her axe throwing skills, leaving the Head Gamemaker surprised once again.

Madder practically read from his dark and depressing journal of solemn and complete lack of confidence. Jerald gave him brownie points for creativity. Banh used a small knife, and acted like a jackrabbit between waves of dummies, proving to be quite the agile thing. Nerida tried archery, though it was no surprise her skills were inadequate. Looks like she should've learned from Cranston when she had the time. Joyce and Brock both surprised Jerald, like most of the tributes earlier before had done. The two seemed to know their way around a bow, knife, and spear... despite him never seeing either of them work in those stations for the past two days.

Evan had a good arm in using a scythe from working in the agricultural fields, Adie having a decent throwing arm for knives. Grayson replaced Cranston as the male archer for the year, being District 12's first archer/hunter combo to be an example for years to come. _Many_ years to come, and spawn off a franchise character too! Except... he didn't know that yet. Sora had picked up a few martial art skills from Luxe and Armaus, using them in a routine she called _Floor_. Turned out it already existed.

With the scores, no one got lower than a three. In numerical order, they were~

 _3: Madder Tweed of District 8_ _4: Magenta Miranda of District 5  
5: Fallon Lewis of District 3, Barrett Thorn of District 4, Nerida Callis of District 9  
6: Luna Capricorn of District 6, Luka Tayviel of District __7, Jorie Gyle of District 8, Banh Agnes of District 9, Joyce Kimbell of District 10_ _7: Iory Hathaway of District 3, Adie Connor of District 11, Sora Kurenai of District 12_ _8: C_ _hasidy Griffith of District 4, Connor Torye of District 6, Evan Hollander of District 11  
_ _9: Artemis Stevenson of District 2, Brock Risco of District 10, Grayson Lilanic of District 12  
_ _10: Armaus Titus of District 2, Tycho Brunfields of District 5  
_ _11: Luxe Beaumont of District 1  
_ _12: Crux Black of District 1, Fawn Maples of District 7_

* * *

 _Interview Night_

Later that evening, Interview Night began... and what a night it sure would turn out to be. In a surprise, Caelan Escorath, boyfriend of victor Cranston Ervack would indeed have the love of his life join him on stage for interviews, and they both acted as hosts for the night. Crux came flat out, spoiling the secret of the arranged engagement between him and Luxe. Armaus dolled on about his old life and how he needed a change, perhaps the Hunger Games could give it to him. Iory came flat out and expressed how a particular girl in the tribute crowd made him crazy, that person being Luna Capricorn. Fallon Lewis had written a message to her sister to be read aloud.

Barrett Thorn tried displaying his cocky skills, which prompted Crux and Artemis to let him know he had promptly been kicked out of the Career alliance for being a failure in battle. Chasidy rode his heels on talking about her disgusting father and why winning would only make things worse for her. If she died, she wouldn't care. Magenta Miranda cursed out the Capitol for their barbaric treatment of District 5 during the reaping, with Connor Torye backing her up. Luna said yes to Iory's question, that she did indeed like him back, the two sharing a kiss on stage.

Luka decided to follow in the District 3 male's path and confess his own feelings for District 10's Brock Risco, who got up and left from the Interview hall, not even going on stage _for_ an interview. Madder expressed his sadness at the Hunger Games and how he honestly knew what the outcome was going to become, why try and fix it? Nerida used her screen time to yell at Cranston, causing Caelan to force her evicted removal from the hall. Joyce went into lengthy detail of life back home and the relationship with her father, Phillip, which caused the audience to cry. Evan Hollander came out with the secret that he and Adie Connor were half-brother and half-sister, having been separated at birth and put into two different families. Sora Kurenai used her last moment of the night to explain that despite the noticeable problems with the tribute crowd, she had found a family. One that'd kill her, but a family none the less.

After everything was said and done, Caelan, Cranston, Ammadeus, and Jerald used the final hours of the night to go into plans on how the Games would turn out. They all expected everything to go disastrously, making a last announcement to remind them of the Alliance Rule, the rule that had been put into place from the last games, which failed epically.

While the hours winded down, Joyce and Luka went to find Brock, seeing him up on the roof, completely crying his eyes out. Bawling. Unable to handle the pressure, he left everything out in the open. The boy from seven and the boy from ten ended their talk with a kiss, and Brock solemnly agreed to date Luka if it meant one thing. Should they die, they'd die together.

* * *

 _Cornucopia and Day 1_

The sixty seconds everyone dreaded. The four main representatives in the Capitol held onto everything with bated breaths, as the timer wound down. Madder Tweed committed the third suicide in Hunger Games history by stepping off of his pedestal first, blowing himself sky high intentionally. The moment the gong rang out, the golden plain of the Cornucopia broke into madness. Sora Kurenai must've tripped onto the way for a knife, Fawn implanting an axe between her shoulders, killing the girl instantly.

Nerida Callis tried fighting Luxe Beaumont for a bow, the daughter of the mayor from District 9 getting slit in the throat with a small dagger, the successor to the infamous Eve Gladius going down within the first ten minutes of the Games. Adie Connor tried battling Fawn for a second axe on the battlefield, getting the same fate as Sora, this time being hit in the head by the same blade she tried getting. Fawn Maples proved to be a monster by getting two of the first four kills in the games.

Jorie Gyle would lose her life as well, Grayson Lilanic having occupied a tree in the beginning moments of the bloodbath, sniping her in the chest from afar. He particularly killed her for the snappy attitude she gave her own partner. Brock Risco would be the next to fall... at the hands of his newfound boyfriend. Luka, in a crazy turn of events from his bipolarity, stabbed his lover in the chest numerous times with a sword, ranting on homophobia, not even knowing whom he had just beaten to death. Evan Hollander, after seeing Adie's dead body, felt anger and tried going at Crux Black, but the sword fight ended way too early, the male from eleven being beheaded by a quick swipe to the neck.

The last casualty of the bloodbath, and the last casualty of the day for the first starting point of the 2nd annual Hunger Games would be Tycho Brunfields, dying to Iory Hathaway who bludgeoned him in the head with a mace after the ashy haired kid from five made a smart ass comment about the District 3 male's nervousness. It turned out the nervousness proved to be rather raw.

Eight people died on day one, compared to the four with Hunger Games one.

Back in the command center, after Jorie Gyle had her face flash across the screen, victor Cranston Ervack broke down into a panic attack, thinking he saw the deceased face of his old partner and girlfriend, Velvet Reque. Caelan would soothe the victor to sleep in their apartment, before taking over duties as the main overseer of the games.

* * *

 _Day 2_

The second day would result in only one death, poor Magenta Miranda. After seeing Iory beat Tycho to death, she jumped into shock and in her running, ran into the Career pack. Trying to prove herself, Artemis downed the girl from District 5 in seconds, mowing her down with an arrow to the head, alongside a gutted stomach. In the evening, Luka argued with himself over the death of Brock, and when coming across Joyce in the woods, the girl flat out refused to speak with him, instead screaming at the top of her lungs, calling him a monster.

From pressure by the Capitol citizens, Ammadeus and Jerald are forced to send in a mutation into the arena, a commonly known rodent as simple as a mouse, that when enraged, could grow ten times its normal size and have bites that turn people on fire. Hiding in a sewer system underneath the arena, which was an abandoned baseball stadium outside a city called Chicago, they'd appear anywhere and everywhere you turned.

* * *

 _Day 3_

Luka, in his wanderings, like Magenta ran into the Career pack. After being forced into a brutal match with Barrett where weapons would not be allowed, the career male from four would prove himself by strangling the young kid from District 7 till he could no longer breath. His win would be short lived as Luka betrayed the agreement of the brawl, slitting the boy's throat with a knife.

Chasidy and Armaus stayed with the dying boy while the other three Careers didn't bother to stay. Despite his redeeming qualities, Crux would still call Barrett a failure, which made the two tributes who cared get into a shouting match with the Career leader. From afar, Luna, Iory, and now Connor who joined them watched from afar when a rouge Grayson kidnapped Connor.

Banh, in a part of the baseball stadium, the batting cages, has a run in with Fawn, who broke off from the Careers at the end of the first day to steal supplies. He isn't skewered into little bits, instead using switches at the batting cages to distract the axe wielding maniac with baseballs and lasers of all things. He manages to escape with a slight wound on his arm, Fawn becoming partially blinded in her right eye by a haywire laser from a switch he pulled.

* * *

 _Day 5_

The mouse rats would escape into the arena through a hole in the drains of the baseball stadium showers. The Careers ran into part of the pack, Armaus proving to be quite the leader when Crux fails to perform well under immediate pressure. Joyce manages to unluckily encounter the mutations as well, using an explosive she found in the cornucopia to explode a section of stadium seats on the rats, however leaving a small section of the arena unusable.

Grayson, having knocked Connor out, goes to explore the arena, doing some hunting and having a set chance of encountering Iory while he was away from camp, looking for the male from District 6. The two brawl, Iory getting the better half of Grayson and pushing him into a pit that leads to the baseball stadium basement, leaving him alone.

Connor wakes up from his capture, and wandering around aimlessly, witness the rat pack devour an already dying Fallon Lewis. He buries her by home plate of one of the fields.

* * *

 _Day 6_

Iory and Luna get into an argument over their ideals, and the former leaves camp in a huff. Traveling through the stadium tunnels, he meets the Careers. He doesn't get a chance to beg for mercy when Crux has run him in with a sword, killing him. Meanwhile, Fawn finds a way to create smoke signals from burning the palm trees around the arena, choosing to communicate with the Careers... she's coming for them too.

Chasidy and Luxe, at night, get a moment to sit in the parking lot of the arena, staring up at the stars. The two discuss anything and everything they can think of, the girl from District 4 having a strange hallucination of seeing Barrett in the distance waving at her like a ghost. She doesn't think anything of it, and falls back asleep.

Back in the Capitol, Cranston goes out for a dinner date with Caelan, and someone blows up the restaurant they're eating at, raising alarm in the Capitol, making everyone think that the bomb was an attempted assassination attempt on the District 8 victor.

* * *

 _Day 8_

Early that morning, Crux splits the Careers up into groups, he and Chasidy would go scout the lower left of the arena for tributes, Armaus and Luxe would take the northern region, and Artemis would stay to guard base camp. Stuck with the boring guardian job, the District 2 female doesn't listen and goes off the main path, running into Grayson. He tries to kill her, and she ultimately dies to an arrow in the neck, but not before wounding him with a strike to the leg.

Grayson hobbles off into the darkness, getting trapped in a room that blows toxic gas and chloroform into the room before the air being sucked out by vents. Banh happens to be in the same sector as the District 12 male, and just reaches him as the hunter's heart stops.

Back at the Career camp, Joyce and Fawn at different times of the day steal from the pile, taking weapons and supplies. In the Capitol, Ammadeus meets Cranston in the hospital, who had been injured by shrapnel.

* * *

 _Day 9_

Connor and Luna run into each other again, completely breaking down and crying, happy to be one of the only district pairs still alive besides District 1 and 2. Together, they plan to change that. The Career pack, now down to four, can be taken and ripped apart from afar thanks to a bow that Connor had stolen from Grayson in his escape from his kidnapping.

The male from District 6 manages to kill Chasidy with a surprise snip in the back of the neck before having his own neck snapped from Crux by behind. As Luna leaps from the stadium seats to kill Luxe, Armaus manages to save the District 1 female who would've been completely exposed. The District 6 pair end up dead, and for some reason, something in Crux snaps when he sees Armaus save his partner.

He drags the District 2 male away from camp, leaving Luxe alone. Finding a bar where concession stands used to be sold when the stadium was open, he tortures the District 2 male, before cutting out his tongue. The two fought and battled arduously, but Armaus succumbed to Crux's pure anger and rage that burned in his veins. Jerald and Caelan in the Capitol watch with suppressed shock, the Interviewer flat out fainting from the cruelty. The arena had, by day nine, been reduced to five tributes.

* * *

 _Day 10_

The immediate day after, Luxe demands to know what happened to Armaus. Crux, in a snarky manner replies and almost explains his gruesome death before turning on his partner completely, hating her and everything she stood for. They brawl, which made it finally happen where the Career pack turned on each other. Crux had been battling more than Luxe had since they arrived in the arena, and so she kills him rather quickly, stabbing him in the heart and leaving him to rot.

Ammadeus, in the Capitol, does some research on gangs in his city, a group that had been linked to the bombing three days earlier.

* * *

 _Day 11_

Banh and Joyce agree to meet each other on the largest field in the open arena, knowing they have two hard adversaries to face- Luxe and Fawn would not be easy enemies to combat. The two agree to team up and take down Fawn, but agree to break it apart if it ends up to just them two after they manage to beat her. In a private sector, Luxe goes on a rampage, destroying the arena around her.

Fawn finds to the District 9 and 10 pair rather easily, and at this point is so focused on winning that she doesn't care to think about strategy. The two outsmart her, Banh directly battling her while Joyce distracts her with ventriloquism and uses the laser light show to her advantage, while Fawn is still partially blinded by the last time she faced off with the male from District 9. He gets a good jab at her, killing her. The two break off their alliance, leaving Jerald in complete distress as it would seem the arena would have one victor again, and not be a different outcome than that of the 1st Hunger Games.

* * *

 _Day 12_

Banh spends the day finding a journal in an office that had still been untouched by the other tributes, and using a pencil, writes down his thoughts on the games, the other tributes, and other things that he found enjoyable or awful throughout the period spent battling and running away from everyone. He starts to cry over a few of the friends he made during his time.

Joyce begs Ammadeus to send her a way of communicating with her father in District 10, and the president happily obliges and gives her a cell phone capable of talking face-to-face. Phillip, her father, receives the same gift and they share one last conversation between each other before the grand finale, Phillip showing Joyce pictures of her mother, and then drops the bombshell that he started dating in her absence to fill the void. She vows to return home for that very reason.

Luxe, after sleeping the entire day from her rampage yesterday, walks on the roof of the stadium before entering the seats of the main field, the same place where Joyce had exploded a section of the steps. Not seeing where she's going as it's dark outside, the Career slips and falls to her death to the ground below, leaving two tributes in the finale. Banh Agnes of District 9 and Joyce Kimbell of District 10, two people that had been counted out since day one.

* * *

 _Day 15_

Banh and Joyce flat out refused to find each other willingly, and from Capitol pressure, Ammadeus is forced to make the two meet by flooding the base of the arena till it rises up where they meet on the seats that Luxe had fallen from before. With no other gimmicks around them, it would be a fight to the death with weapons, fists, or forgiveness.

The male from 9 tries the route of the Alliance Rule, remembering that they could both win, but Joyce is too focused on home to agree to any mind of that, trying to skewer him with a knife she had found in their three day rouge. The two dodge and battle atop the top of the stands when Joyce is about to fall off, and Banh grabs her hand, pulling the girl up.

It turns out she betrays his chest, stabbing him in the back between the ribs. In a last push of struggle, he shoves her off the stands, and Joyce is caught up by surprise, drowning in the rising water, blood from all the dead tributes, and mutations in the water.

At the end of a fifteen day arena, Banh Agnes of District 9 is declared the winner of the 2nd Hunger Games.

* * *

 _Recovering Period_

The same day of the recovery period, Banh, Cranston, Ammadeus, and Jerald are all in the hospital together, discussing and enjoying the life of what a victor and escapism feels like.

Their moment is ruined however by Caelan storming into the room, brandishing a pistol. With a manical laughter, he squeezes the trigger and fires the gun point blank four times. What Ammadeus had arrived specifically for was finding out who was behind the restaurant bombing. Caelan himself. A Neo-Capitol terrorist, someone to step in between him and absolute power.

The interviewer had come to kill the District 9 male before being crowned as a new victor.

* * *

 _Final Placements_

 **Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games** is Banh Agnes

 **2nd-6th:** Joyce Kimbell, Luxe Beaumont, Fawn Maples, Crux Black, Armaus Titus

 **7th-10th:** Luna Capricorn, Connor Torye, Chasidy Griffith, Grayson Lilanic

 **11th-15th:** Artemis Stevenson, Iory Hathaway, Fallon Lewis, Barrett Thorn, Luka Tayviel

 **16th-24th:** Magenta Miranda, Tycho Brunfields, Evan Hollander, Brock Risco, Jorie Gyle, Adie Conner, Nerida Callis, Sora Kurenai, Madder Tweed

* * *

 **And there we are guys. That's how the 2nd Hunger Games would've gone. A lot of days and specific parts of the story would have been broken into multiple chapters to spread out content evenly and equally. As you can tell... this set of games would've been gruesome just by content, especially for a Rated T story.**

 **I don't have amazing time to give eulogies for every character available, but they all will get a word about them, *deep breath* Crux, you were an amazing villain I would've loved to explore. Luxe, thanks for the multiple facets I could've experimented with to die ironically by something she couldn't prepare for. Artemis, nothing wrong with being similar to many Careers, but there was a redeemable characteristic in you I liked. Armaus, you were complex in every manner alive, and were easily in my top five favorite characters this story even had. Iory, getting you to have a side friend and lover managed to explode all the possibilities you could've become. Fallon, for being true to family, but still hard to figure out made things fun.**

 **Barrett, in all your cockiness, I tried to give you one moment to shine, hope you saw it. Chasidy, for sticking to your guts and morals while still being a Career requires kudos. Tycho, as an insane idiot that you were, I sure loved writing you. Magenta, the only girl... in fact the only true tribute in this entire story that was normal in every aspect imaginable. Thank you. Connor, for being in the lap of luxury and yet be as strong and willed as you were- fantastic to write. Luna, thanks for being Iory's equal, gorgeous in all the halcyon skies you could imagine.**

 **Luka, for turning on people in the blink of an eye and having gorgeous development through my thought of plot, love you. Fawn, for sharing the antagonist title in this story before Caelan would take that spot... you were gorgeous too. Madder, though no one got to read you, portraying depression and sadness is hard and I'm glad I had an outlet for that. Jorie, playing the new Diamond, our critical bitch, great job. Banh, you also took to the top five of the story, and luckily had enough charm and love to make you grow up into a winner. No, you aren't dead my friend. Nerida, there hasn't been a more insane character than you yet. Loved everything there was to indulge.**

 **Brock, I wish I could've written you and Luka's heart shattering relationship... but all good things are ended before they begin. Joyce, for being Bloodbath fodder to 2nd place in the Games? High five girl! Evan, although no one read you either, thanks for being true to yourself and Adie. Adie, same for you- matched Evan in greatness. Grayson, we all need a Katniss, and I think there was more to you than I let out, and I'm sorry. Sora, for never getting a true family, I hope the readers gave you a family.**

 ***sigh* It's rough finishing something I'm not even going to truly compete. I hope this was a surprise for you all, and thanks for submitting even though this couldn't be seen to the end. Now here's why my surprise comes in. Around this December, I will be indeed starting a new SYOT. The 3rd Hunger Games, to play off of this massive cliffhanger I gave you that you'll need to hold in till the piece comes round. I will say it here and now, sign up if you wish when the piece comes out, but that is a commitment you are signing yourself onto. Treat it with respect. I love you all so much, and I'm sorry about my attitude towards the whole thing.**

 **This is Paradigm of Writing and I'll see you all soon, before we end this year, with a new Hunger Games SYOT, #3: Fracture Between Two Hearts. When times gets close for that, tribute submissions could begin. I will finish that story to the test, it'll actually be my only priority or one of two when I write it, and I will get it done, I say it now and I'm going to stay by it forever and ever. Have an amazing day.**

 **~ Paradigm**


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